


Black Dog

by leveragehunters (Monkeygreen)



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Black Dogs, Cameos, Creature Steve, Dogs, Ghost steve, M/M, POV Multiple, Protective Steve Rogers, Skinny Steve, Slow Build, Steve Rogers is Not Captain America, THEY'RE GOOD DOGS, Writer Bucky Barnes, inferred past animal death, technical writer bucky barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-29
Updated: 2018-08-29
Packaged: 2019-07-03 23:29:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 55,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15829134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Monkeygreen/pseuds/leveragehunters
Summary: So long ago the details were lost to time, people began creating guardians of the dead. They were made from dogs, dogs who were buried in graveyards before anyone was laid to rest, their spirits arising as black dogs, bound protectors of the human dead.Steve had always wondered what would happen after he died. He hadn't expected the answer to be 'wake up in the cemetery he'd been buried in', but here he was, some kind of ghost, and he could see the trees through his hands. It wasn't so bad, and he wasn't alone—a sleek black dog, golden eyes glowing bright, was happily waiting to greet him.Decades later, on what was supposed to be a quiet, peaceful, definitely-not-life-changing walk through the woods, Bucky stumbled across an abandoned cemetery and into the impossible.(It's a ghost story and a love story and a story about dogs.)





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I wasn't sure I was going to get here on this one. alby_mangroves (Artgroves), Nonymos, and Kiriei have been endlessly patient and encouraging as they listened to me go on about it, as have KT, AG, and SM, my not-even-slightly-into-fandom team at work. alby_mangroves, who is amazing and insightful, dug into fifty thousand words and basically saved this when I'd reached the point of whimpering under my desk, so all of the world's thanks go to her for an incredible beta job.
> 
> Note: I've played a little fast and loose with black dog mythology, mixing and matching to create my own. (And I didn't capslock 'they're good dogs' in the tags-AO3 did that all on its own-but I wholeheartedly agree with the sentiment.)

* * *

 

The truth was, humans have always had a complicated relationship with death. Different places, different times, wherever you went in the world the _relationship_ might change, but it would never, ever be _simple_.

What happened afterwards… Some might know or some might not, but if anyone knew, _truly_ knew, they weren't telling. And so long ago, in certain parts of the world, not knowing what monsters might lurk between death and whatever-came-after, when people chose land for burying the dead, they ensured that the first thing buried would _stay behind._ No whatever-came-after for _that_ spirit; no, it would stay forever, to protect the spirits of all the dead to come.

But what human could they condemn to an eternity of binding? And what human spirit, once bound, could still be trusted to faithfully carry out its duty?

None, they concluded, and the black dogs were born.

Before any human was laid to rest, a dog, humanity's ever faithful companion, was buried alone in the deep dark of the grave, their bound spirit arising as guardian of the dead.

Time passed as time does and colonisers carried their rituals with them into other lands, but eventually the truth of the black dogs was forgotten, their memory fading into myth. _Belief_ became _tradition_ , tradition with no meaning behind it, remembered only by those who worked with the dead. But tradition can be as powerful as ritual fuelled by belief and so—even if they didn't exactly know why—in new cemeteries, in new graveyards, in some deep, dark unregarded corner, the first thing buried was always a dog.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tweaked Steve's birth year back to avoid the war and keep him the same age as when he got the serum in MCU canon.

The sun was low in the sky, casting long shadows across the unkempt grass as Steve stared through his hands at the overturned dirt he was standing on. His eyes followed the shadow pooling around his feet to the small, square headstone it belonged to, the one that simply read _Steven Grant Rogers_ _1917-1938_.

"I guess that answers that question."

He'd always wondered what would happen after he died. He hadn't expected the answer to be 'appear in the cemetery you were buried in'. He went back to staring at his hands, turning them over and back, lifted one to stare at the sky through it, and in the dim light his hand almost seemed to glow.

Steve let it fall and let out a heavy sigh. Or it would have been a sigh if he'd had any breath to make it with, but even without, he felt like he got the point across. He wondered how much time had passed since he'd died. The dirt covering his grave was speckled with the green of new growth, so it hadn't happened yesterday.

He lifted his head, taking in his surroundings. This wasn't the new city graveyard that backed onto the equally new, and impressive, church. No, this was the old cemetery, the original one, the one that had been here since the town was founded. The one that backed onto the wild woods and didn't have a church or a chapel to call its own.

People weren't buried here anymore, not really. They could be, it was still a cemetery, but people who had a choice were buried in the city graveyard. Steve wasn't surprised he'd ended up here. It wasn't like he'd even had the money to be buried _here._

Dying might be free but everything that came after wasn't.

"I guess Dr Erskine meant it when he said he'd see me taken care of."

Not that Dr Erskine had much money, either, not when he kept spending it on patients who didn't have enough of their own, not when he kept treating people like Steve, who's betraying body had kept him from making a decent living.

Steve raised his hand again, staring through it at the trees encroaching the stone and rusted iron fence surrounding the cemetery. _I guess that's not a problem anymore._

He couldn't remember dying. He thought he was happy about that, since he doubted it'd been pleasant. He didn't know where he'd been between now and then, but he _was_ kind of disappointed he'd missed his funeral. It would've been interesting to see who'd shown up.

Moving west, where it was dry and warm, away from the weather in New York that had literally been killing him, had been supposed to help him live longer, but he guessed at the end of the day you couldn’t cheat death with geography.

He laughed, because there wasn't much else he could do, and a soft, muted huff drew his attention.

He turned around.

There was a black dog sitting among the headstones, watching him attentively. A lean-bodied black dog with a long muzzle, pointed ears, and brilliant golden eyes. It cocked its head and huffed again.

Steve stared at it. Stared at the eyes that pooled like molten gold, and it stared back, because it could obviously see him. Neither of those things were normal, not the eyes or the seeing ghosts—not that Steve had ever believed in ghosts when he'd been alive, but he'd always heard it was more of a cat thing.

The black dog woofed softly and stood, wagging its tail as it approached Steve, ears sharply pricked.

Steve held his ground. He was dead. He was, as best as he could figure it, some kind of ghost (hard to say he didn't believe in them _now_ ). He wasn't too worried about a dog, even one that wasn't quite right—and _black dog in a cemetery_ was tickling something in his memory.

The dog crossed the last of the space between them in a bound, and sat at his feet, mouth hanging open, tongue lolling, looking every inch a happy dog.

"Hi?" Steve ventured, holding out a hand.

The black dog huffed and licked Steve's hand. It felt strange, cool and dry instead of warm and damp, but it gazed at Steve out of hopeful eyes.

"Good dog," Steve ventured and it barked once and threw itself down on the ground, wriggling with happiness. Not _it_ , then, Steve noted; _she._ Steve crouched and tentatively scratched her behind an ear and her eyes closed, tail thumping the ground.

Steve couldn't help his grin. "Hey, you are a good dog, aren't you?" he said, settling cross-legged next to her. With her eyes closed, hiding the gold, and acting like that, she seemed like an ordinary dog, and he started scratching her chest.

There was definitely something, though. Something he'd read, or something he'd heard, maybe, something in the stories his Ma had brought from the old country…

He let it rest, didn't chase after it while he kept patting the dog, and when she rested her head on his knee, gazing up at him out of unnatural golden eyes, it unfolded in his memory like a book. Appropriate, since it was in a book he'd encountered it. It'd been a book of Irish myths, and in among the tales of fairies and bargains badly made had been tales of black dogs. Some had been good, and some had been bad and some had been a bit of both: black dogs that dragged travellers to hell, black dogs that ran with the Wild Hunt, and black dogs that roamed graveyards, watching over the dead.

"Is that you?" he asked. "Are you here to watch over me?"

She yawned and closed her golden eyes.

"I don't know what I'm doing here," Steve said, "or how long I'll be here," because this couldn't be all there was, "so how about we look after each other?"

The black dog snuggled closer. Steve ran his hands over her ears, glad not to be alone while he waited for what came next.

 

*   *   *

 

What came next seemed to be up to him.

He was alone in the cemetery apart from the black dog. If there'd ever been other ghosts here they were gone now.

Steve thought he knew where they'd gone.

In the back of his mind, at the edge of his hearing, there was a pull. It was a bright road glimpsed through the trees, ever-present in his awareness, and in the distance, from the end of the road, drifted a half-heard voice calling his name.

It wasn't irritating, was more like the warmth of sunlight on skin, but it was always there.

While he couldn't know for sure, there was a solid certainty in his heart that if he stepped onto that road, if he followed that voice, it would lead him to what came next.

It wasn't demanding, didn't grow stronger, so it was easy to ignore. It wasn't that he was afraid of what came next, but he was content here with the black dog. For the first time in a long time he was at peace.

It wasn't perfect. The first time she brought him a stick to throw, Steve discovered he couldn't touch anything. He tried to pick it up and his hand went right through it.

The only thing he could touch was the dog, which was obviously something to do with her, since she could touch anything she wanted. She could collect sticks and snap at squirrels and rest her head on Steve's knee, but anything Steve tried to touch he phased right through.

She'd made sad eyes at Steve, the gold muted, but Steve had wrestled her and run so she could give chase and her disappointment had been forgotten.

That was how he found out the black dog was stuck in the cemetery.

Steve could cross over the border of the cemetery, coming and going as he pleased—although he was reluctant to go too far. Not after he'd been running so she could chase, ran out of the cemetery, and she'd skidded to a stop at the border, claws digging into the dirt like she'd hit a wall. She'd huffed at him in disapproval, dancing in place. Steve had stopped, looking back at her, and she'd let loose one sharp, worried bark, then stared at him intently, golden eyes flaring bright.

She couldn't leave the cemetery. She wanted him to come back. It couldn't have been clearer if she'd grown a voice and shouted it.

Apart from those minor hiccups, it was like an endless summer with no pain, no moments when he couldn't breathe, no scraping for money. He didn't need to worry about anything, he had the company of an amazing dog, and all it had taken was dying to get it.

Steve had to laugh, but he was happy, and he was in no hurry to leave.

 

*   *   *

 

Time passed strangely in the cemetery. Steve sometimes felt as if he didn't exist at all, as if he and the black dog stopped being while the world moved around them, jarred back into reality when the cemetery's buried dead received visitors.

They didn't come often, and there were only a scattered handful who came at all, each one looking worn and tired. Steve was careful not to overhear when they talked to their dead. They'd never know, and he was itching for human voices, but it felt disrespectful, especially when he knew, even though they weren't here, those dead might be somewhere they could listen.

What didn't come to the cemetery was more dead. There were no burials. Steve kept waiting, assuming they'd happen eventually, but as time passed in its strange way he had to conclude that he'd been the last.

Eventually, even the visitors stopped coming.

The path to the cemetery slowly disappeared under the inevitable onslaught of the forest. The iron on top of the stones that formed the cemetery fence began to rust, and the vines began to creep in over the headstones.

Steve never named the black dog. It would have felt like naming the wind or the lightning, even though he was sure she'd once been an actual dog. He wondered if she'd been someone's beloved pet or working dog, or maybe a wandering stray.

Whatever she'd been, she was something different now, something _more,_ and she watched over Steve, even if there was nothing to protect him from but the endless war for territory that raged between the squirrels and the crows who made their home in the huge tree that shadowed the cemetery.

 

*   *   *

 

Time passed and the forest did its best to reclaim the cemetery's land. In a few spots the iron still stood above untumbled stones; everywhere else the stones had fallen, the cheap mortar worn away by the weather and the vines, and the vines and brush marched in, fed well by the lush, rich dirt.

Deer and rabbits grazed between the headstones; foxes stalked the rabbits. The crows committed mischief wherever they saw the chance, and the squirrels chittered angrily at everything.

Steve watched it all, still strangely divorced from the passage of time, the black dog by his side. The half-glimpsed road, the half-heard call still hummed at the edge of his awareness, but he barely noticed them. They were just another part of this existence, like the black dog, the squirrels and the crows, and the occasional appearance of people. 

They weren't here to visit the cemetery's dead. Most of them didn't even seem to realise there was a cemetery, and Steve only glimpsed them in the distance through the trees.

Some approached the cemetery, seeming excited when they realised what it was. Most were respectful, and some were cautious, as if they thought old headstones and long-buried dead would rise up and bite them.

Steve was always a little amused by those ones, wishing for the ability to make himself visible and yell, "Boo!"

A few would wander through and take photographs—and the first time Steve saw a camera spit the photo out, right there on the spot, the picture fading into life before his eyes, he had to go and sit down. Others would take rubbings of the headstones, and he was always a little bit fond of the ones who paid attention to _his_.

The black dog watched them all closely. Always stood between them and Steve. None of them raised her ire, not even the ones who came right into the heart of the cemetery, she was relaxed as she tracked their movements, but she never abandoned her protective stance, never let Steve get too close to them.

Every time, even when it was clear she knew the people were harmless, she gently herded Steve away. Every time it sent a wave of affection through Steve.

He'd never had a pet. No one he'd known growing up had had a pet. They weren't the kind of things people in his neighbourhood could afford. He'd seen them, of course, people walking their dogs, or carrying them, tiny things tucked under their arms, fancy collars glittering. And of course there were the strays, but no one could get close to them. They'd watch with wary eyes, cats and dogs both, waiting for a kick or a rock while they wolfed down whatever bit of food they'd found.

Steve had gotten into a fight or two over those kicks and rocks, because he'd never been any good at standing by while someone caused pain for the fun of it, but by the time he'd picked himself up off the ground, staunched the bleeding and dusted himself off, the stray'd be long gone.

He hadn't known why people had doted on their dogs. He'd seen all the _stuff_ people could buy for them, how much it'd _cost_ , and he'd shaken his head, but he got it now. He understood. Because he _loved_ this dog.

One autumn afternoon, as the leaves turned golden and carpeted the forest floor, the black dog turned to face the almost-path that wove between the trees, worn into the forest floor by the passage of deer and people. Her hackles stood high and a low growl rolled through the cemetery. 

There were two people approaching the cemetery. Steve studied them, trying to figure out what had set the black dog off.

One was a man, one was a woman. They were both white, both had dirty-blonde hair, hers long and in a pony tail, his short and curly. They were both carrying leather satchels, both wearing bright, almost garishly, coloured turtlenecks and high waisted pants that flared wide at the bottom.

The clothes weren't anything Steve would have chosen, but they weren't the strangest he and the dog had seen.

Maybe it was the man's moustache the dog had a problem with; if so, Steve empathised. It was thick and bushy, crawling halfway down the man's cheeks, almost like a small animal had come to rest under the man's nose and died.

They came closer to the cemetery, the dog's growl grew deeper, more intense, and her golden eyes grew brighter, until they were almost blazing.

Steve knew better than to try and get past her, even though he wanted to get a better look at these two. He didn't know what was upsetting her, but whatever it was, he wouldn't add to it.

The pair stopped right at the edge of the cemetery's border—like they could _see_ it, like it was a solid barrier, not a vague place of tumbled stones and rusted iron and climbing vines.

"You know this is a bad idea," the woman said.

"How could I? I mean, you've only said that fourteen times now. And that was just on the way up here."

"Well, _William_ , if you'd listened to me any of the fourteen times I'd said it, I wouldn't have had to say it a fifteenth time, would I?"

He turned away from studying the barrier and raised an eyebrow. "And yet you're still here, _Patricia_ , so you can't think it's all that bad, can you?"

She made a face at him and flipped her ponytail over her shoulder. "I'm not going to stand by and let you get eaten by a second-rate hellhound, even if you're being a chump."

He grinned. "Ah, Pat, you're still my girl. I knew I married you for a reason."

"Maybe, Bill, but I'm having trouble remembering why _I_ did." She scowled at him. "If you're going to do this, do it."

"Chill for a minute. I don't want to get eaten by a second-rate hellhound, either."

She sighed. "Are you really sure about doing this? This is a big deal. This isn't like sacrificing a mouse or rat or cat. This is getting into seriously dark magic."

"It's only a grim. It's not a person. And someone already bound it here. This isn't really any different."

Pat snorted and stared down her nose at him in disbelief.

"Fine, yes, you're right. It's different. But Pat, we're not going to _hurt_ anyone with the power we get from it. We're just going to encourage people a little bit. Make things a bit easier for ourselves."

"We?"

"Of course _we_." He slid his hands down her shoulders, pulled her close, and kissed her soundly. "You're my lady. What's mine is yours, remember? This power's gonna belong to both of us."

"You've always been a smooth talker. Too smooth," she said on a long sigh as she pulled back, but her lips were curved in a smile. "Let's get it over with." 

He grinned and kissed her again, then put his bag on the ground and started pulling things out of it: candles in heavy glass holders, which he set in a triangle, a lighter, a plastic container, a shovel folded into thirds, and a large plastic sack. "This won't take long."

The dog's hackles were high, teeth gleaming with reflected gold; Steve tried to pull her away, to the other side of the cemetery, because he didn't like this. He didn't like any of this: not the way they were talking, not what they were talking about.

It was like trying to move a mountain. The black dog didn't budge.

"Okay," Bill muttered. "Ready?"

Pat nodded, eyes half closed as she started to chant under her breath.

"One, two, three," Bill breathed and darted his hand across the border of the cemetery to grab a handful of dirt.

The black dog leapt away from Steve, blurring with speed, suddenly visible to the two—she must be, because they both flinched—but as she slashed at Bill's hand she bounced back, like she'd hit a barrier.

"Ha, it worked!"

"I told you," Pat muttered, narrowed eyes locked on the black dog.

Bill poured the dirt into the container, then pulled out a knife.

The black dog's growl wound around Steve and through the cemetery. Pat flinched, but Bill didn't react as he drew the knife across the back of his arm.

Dread rippled through Steve.

Blood oozing from the shallow cut, Bill lit a candle, then another, then another, placed the container in the middle, and as he muttered bitter, twisted, _wrong_ words that seemed to warp the air around him he dribbled his blood over the dirt.

The black dog tipped her head back and howled.

Bill smiled, cold as the winter that had taken Steve's life. He stood. And stepped across the cemetery's border.

The black dog lunged, teeth bared, but she hit the barrier again as Pat chanted louder. Shaking her head like she'd bitten into razor blades and fire, she backed away, pressing against Steve's legs.

She was _afraid_ ; he'd never seen her afraid, and he wound his fingers into her fur.

Eyes narrowed, Bill strode towards the back corner of the cemetery like he was following a compass needle. The shovel was clutched in his hand.

Steve followed, keeping a wide space between them. The black dog was pressed tight against his leg, Steve's hand still buried reassuringly in her fur.

"I hate digging. I hope they didn't bury it too deep."

"Stop bitching," Pat said in a strained voice. "I can't hold this forever."

Bill started to dig, groaning and complaining the whole time.

The black dog whined. It was so unexpected, it took Steve a moment to understand what he'd heard. He crouched down and she pressed into him, snugged tight in his arms. He had no idea what to do.

Time passed, soft and blurry, and then Bill made a satisfied noise and slammed the shovel down into the hole. The sound of crunching bone tore through the cemetery, and he reached into the hole and dragged out a dog's skull, dangling it carelessly with one hand through an eye socket.

Grinning, he held it up. "Time to enslave a grim." He turned to face the snarling dog.

Steve threw himself between them, but he was invisible, he couldn't _touch_ anything, he was helpless to stop this.

Bill pulled open the knife slash on his arm, dragged his hand through it, and smeared blood over the skull, then started to chant, wrong-sounding words thickening the air around them.

The dog's eyes were blazing gold. Steve could feel the words wrapping around them, digging in like cruel vines, like barbed wire, tearing at the dog, tearing at Steve who was standing between the words and the dog, and her pain echoed through Steve.

Steve dropped to his knees, reached out blindly, and dragged her closer. A black cloud streaked with red engulfed them, tendrils lashing around the dog, sliding _through_ the dog. She yelped, thrashed, but there was no escape. They were too tight, too strong, bleeding darkness everywhere they touched, and Steve was _helpless_. He couldn't stop it, he couldn't save her. He had to do something, anything…

He closed his eyes and pushed _back_ , fighting with every ounce of stubbornness he'd ever had. He'd been dragged into this and for one moment he bought them peace, the two of them in the eye of the storm. Just Steve and the dog, but she'd changed. Gone was the sleek black dog with golden eyes. He was holding a hound, short and stout, with floppy ears and soft brown eyes, her coat a patchy brown and white. The black dog was still there, a golden-eyed silhouette, framing the hound who was staring up at Steve, begging him to make things right.

The bright half-glimpsed road, the distant half-heard voice, that Steve had always ignored, grew brighter, louder, as Steve turned towards them. As he reached for them. But not for himself.

Steve shoved the hound at them. The floppy eared, soft-eyed hound. It was all he could do, all he could think to do, and if there was anything at all behind the call, anything that truly existed after this, _it would_ _take her._

Light swirled, flared into a golden road. The black cloud roiled and parted, the tendrils burnt away. Steve cupped the dog's head. "Go." He kissed her between the eyes. "You're a good girl and it's time to go."

A fiery wind flashed through him, a cool nose pressed against his hand, he heard howls on the wind, a song embedding itself in his non-existent bones as the world flared incandescent around him and a weight settled on his shoulders. A translucent hound with floppy ears and soft eyes, barely visible in the sunlight, stared at Steve, tail wagging, then she swirled into motes of starlight that spun around him and _through him_ and vanished into the sky.

He stared after them until they disappeared. His eyes were wet, but there was no time because Bill was staring open mouthed.

At him. He could see Steve.

Steve bowed his head, an entire world he'd never known existed exploding into his awareness. It narrowed to a single flashpoint of beating red he knew was Bill: Bill was danger. He was bad. He had to be dealt with.

Steve rose gracefully to his feet, feeling the grass, the wind, the sun above, hearing every sound, scenting every smell, and lunged for him, leaping on him, fingers curling to dig into his throat, bearing him to the ground.

His eyes were wide with terror, Pat was shouting, and chanting, but her words washed over Steve and away. Steve could smell their fear, he could hear Bill's heart pounding, his blood racing, as he stammered, "How? What?"

Pat's words had protected Bill against the black dog, but Steve was something more. Something new. Something born of love and hope and desperation. "Get out. Get out and never come back. If you come back, I'll kill you." He bared his teeth.

Bill stared up at him with horrified eyes.

"Do you believe me?"

He nodded.

"Then get out." He stood, and when Bill scrambled to his feet and ran, gave chase, staying right at his heels until the border of the cemetery flared into his awareness like a warning. He skidded to a stop, fetching up against an immovable wall, and watched them snatch up what they'd brought and _run_.

When they were gone, when even their scent didn't drift back on the wind, Steve turned to the skull Bill had dropped. He carefully returned it to the dog's grave and used his hands to push the dirt back in. He didn't stop until the hole was full, and he patted it down.

Then he stood, head tilted, restless, feeling…needing… He closed his eyes and let it take him and when he opened them he was closer to the ground. He had paws. A tail.

He was the black dog.

Steve tipped back his head and howled, long and clear. _I'm here. I'm here._

 _We hear you._ Howls on the wind, the song that had recognised him. It was others like him… No, not quite like him. But they were black dogs. He could hear it. They were singing to each other, voices connecting them together. He could feel them, sliding into his awareness, and he howled louder, pouring his heart and soul into it.

He could sense them, feel them, stars in the night sky of his mind, some bright, some faint, and one the faintest of all, barely there, high up in the sky, too far away to hear their song.

Slowly, the song faded, and he lay down and rested his head on his paws.

The dog— No. The hound was gone, gone to wherever Steve was supposed to go. Steve had taken her place. That golden-eyed silhouette that had surrounded her… When he'd sent her on, he must have slipped into her spot. He hadn't expected that, didn't know what it meant, but he didn't regret his choice.

He couldn't have let those people take her. Couldn't have let them _enslave_ her—a growl slipped loose and rumbled around the cemetery at the thought. He'd had to stop it, and if this was what it cost, so be it.


	3. Fifty-odd years later

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Small warning for on-screen, very quick non-graphic animal death in this chapter.

Bucky wasn't a huge fan of going to clients. It wasn't the travelling he objected to, exactly; it was the fact that most of the time it was completely unnecessary. Except for the occasional highly specialised job—like when Shield had brought him in to rewrite everything from the ground up, after some sort of _incident_ so classified he'd barely been allowed to know _something_ had happened—everything could be done by email, direct file transfer, and Skype.

That meant when clients insisted he come to them it was usually because they thought they were special, and 'special' was usually code for asshole.

Thankfully not in this case. This time it was older clients who'd, sadly, been burned before by people they'd hired online. Since they'd been willing to pay for Bucky's travelling time, had turned out to be polite _and_ willing to take his advice, and he currently had a signed contract to create a complete set of company policies, he was filing this trip under _successful._

The drive back to the city also took him through some beautiful country. Since his meeting had finished sooner than he'd expected, he had time to stop and take advantage. The map he'd gotten from the local gas station was, he'd been assured, much more accurate than his GPS, and it wasn't long before he was turning off the highway onto a side road that led to a dirt road. Eventually he pulled off onto a patch of grass, swapped his client shoes for hiking boots, grabbed his backpack, making sure his phone had a full charge, that he had full water bottles and his first aid kit, checked the map, and headed out.

It was a gorgeous afternoon, the path through the trees were only slightly better than animal trails, but the tree cover was so dense there wasn't much in the way of undergrowth. He settled into it, enjoying the peace of the afternoon. It wasn't a challenge, he wasn't having to work, but a relaxing walk in the woods had its own sort of joy.

Bucky was paying attention—he always paid attention—watching for signs, listening for noises that would mean there might be a bear or a mountain lion (not that he was expecting either, not out here). He wasn't being quiet—because being quiet was a good way to run into something you didn't want to—humming under his breath, so that any animals would hear him coming and avoid him.

Or that was usually how it worked.

The deer standing in the path as he came around a bend didn't look like it wanted to avoid him.

It looked like it wanted to eat him.

Its eyes were red rimmed, its lips pulled back so he could see its teeth, and it was staring at him. It was staring at him like he was in a horror remake of Bambi and Bucky had just shot its mom.

Bucky stopped and took two careful steps backwards. He knew what to do when he ran into a deer. He knew what to do when he ran into a doe with a fawn, when he ran into a buck, which this was. It wasn't mating season, this buck didn't even have antlers, but Bucky had never been more disturbed by an animal in his life.

The deer stamped a hoof and lunged forward a body length.

Bucky fell back further and waved his arms, flapping his jacket. "Hey, hey, go on, get lost!" he yelled, and kept backing away.

Make yourself look big, make loud noises, never turn your back, get out of the deer's territory and you should be fine. That was what all the advice said.

Apparently the deer had missed the memo. It charged, murder in its eyes.

" _Fuck_." The trees were too skinny to climb, dense packed and lean, even without antlers the deer was huge and _not right_ , and moving backwards on this path it was going to be faster than him.

Making a split second decision, he plunged into the trees, knowing (hoping) he'd be faster weaving through them than the deer, knowing he could keep the trees between the deer and him, and ran. 

He didn't worry about direction, just aimed for narrow spaces and tight turns, and he could hear the deer behind him, rasping breath and whining, high-pitched huffs. He heard it slam into trees, knew it had to be scraping skin off as it followed him, and he ran harder, ran faster, his heart pounding out _wrong wrong wrong_ with every beat.

A line of fire drove itself through his calf, a broken branch apparently on the deer's side digging a deep gouge into his flesh, he stumbled, hard, but didn't fall, didn't pause, made himself keep going.

Bucky burst out of the woods into a clearing he would have given his left arm not to find, stumbled over rocks hidden in the tangle of vines and hit the ground, coming face to face with a huge solid…headstone.

He was in a cemetery.

_Oh that can't be good._

The deer burst out of the woods behind him, bloody foam dotting its muzzle, blood streaking its sides, red eyes wild, crazed, and with a grunting snort, it bore down on Bucky like death itself. He tried to scramble to his feet, but he knew he wasn't going to be fast enough. The deer reared over him, Bucky curled into a ball, protecting his head, his stomach, waiting for the hooves to strike...

…and a black shadow swirled out of the air, a black shadow with white teeth and golden eyes, and clamped onto the deer's rear leg, dragging it backwards.

For one second, the world paused, then it jerked into motion as the black dog flowed like a torrent, lunging forward to pull the deer down and open its throat.

Blood flowed out over the ground as the deer kicked once, twice, then lay still, eyes slowly going blank.

Bucky didn't move. His body, his mind, neither knew how to react. They'd understood they were either about to die or get seriously hurt. They weren't sure that had changed, and neither his body nor his mind had the tools to cope with shadowy black dogs appearing from nowhere.

The dog turned to face Bucky, head held high, ears pricked forward, golden eyes bright, clearly studying Bucky. There was no blood on his muzzle, no blood on his fur.

Bucky was awash in adrenaline and lingering fear, but he didn't feel threatened. The dog had come from nowhere, he looked like nothing Bucky had ever seen in this world, but he'd just saved him.

The dog was lean and long, his coat slightly shaggy, his ears sharp and pointed, a ruff of fur around his face making his eyes seem even larger.  As he took a step closer, the tip of his tail ticked once. Not like he was wagging it. It felt more like a deliberate act of reassurance. He stopped a foot or so away, staring down at Bucky, and Bucky stared back.

Time seemed to still, the two of them locked in a moment that didn't exist as they studied each other. Bucky had just been chased through the forest by a homicidal deer, like the world had decided to make one of his favourite books come true and drop him at ground zero. There was a decent chance he could have died. He should be reacting to that, he knew, but it couldn’t quite reach him. His leg was throbbing, and he knew he should do something about that, but he couldn’t quite worry about it.

There was just him and this piece of night shaped like a dog and he didn't have room in his head for anything else.

The dog moved closer. It broke the spell and Bucky couldn't help drawing away. The dog had saved him, but he'd also taken down the deer like it was made of tissue paper. Bucky's more sensible self woke up and urged caution.

He stopped, huffed softly, tilted his head, studying Bucky's leg, and stayed where he was.

Bucky felt most of his sudden wariness fade, but it left a lot of confusion in its wake, and maybe a smidgen of shock. He wasn't sure. This whole thing felt like a dream. "I'm okay." Even if it wasn't true now, it would be eventually. "Uh, thank you." 

The dog met his eyes and they seemed to glow brighter for a moment, before it banked down to a soft shine.

"There was something _wrong_ with that deer. I don't know if it was rabies, but I've never heard of rabies making anything act quite like that. If I didn't know better, I'd be thinking zombie." He ran a hand through his hair. "It's weird."

The dog huffed again, almost like it was agreeing.

"She always said tell her if I saw anything strange," he murmured, then pulled his backpack off, dug out his phone, and hit the number, all without taking his eyes off the dog.

While it rang he wondered why he was calling; he was pretty sure when Natasha'd told him to let her know if he saw strange things she'd been thinking more shady guys with guns than murderous wildlife. Maybe he just wanted the reassurance of knowing he wasn't dreaming.

"Are you lost again?"

Something inside him eased at hearing her voice, a reminder that the world was still there and still normal. "That was one time, and Clint told me that building is supposed to be confusing to get around in. It's not my fault I got lost."

"Your fault you asked me for directions."

"I didn't know you were a terrifying badass everyone was afraid of." If he'd had any idea of her reputation around Shield he probably wouldn’t have asked her for directions, but he'd been wandering down identical hallways and there she'd been—granted, intimidating as hell in her all-black, skin-tight uniform—but he'd asked anyway.

He could hear the smile in her voice as she said, "What do you need, Bucky?"

Now that he had her, he might as well tell her. "You said to let you know if I ever saw anything strange, right?"

"I did."

"Does a homicidal deer count?"

After a moment of silence, she asked, "Where _are_ you?"

"Currently sitting in a cemetery."

"Are you hurt?"

"Just a little. Courtesy of a branch, not courtesy of the deer."

"What happened to the deer?"

"It's dead."

"You killed it?"

He looked at the dog, who was watching him intently. "Not me. The local wildlife intervened."

"Where _exactly_ are you?"

"You can't just trace my phone?" Before he'd finished up at Shield his phone had disappeared for an hour, reappearing in her hands, and she'd passed it back with an enigmatic, _'It's been upgraded'._

"I can." The _but I won't unless you're okay with it_ remained unspoken.

"Then go ahead."

"Give me a minute."

The line went dead, but he checked his phone and they were still connected. He glanced around, staring at the dead deer, at the huge, spreading tree whose branches cast the cemetery in shade. He prodded his calf, gently, and winced. It had stopped bleeding beyond a slow ooze, but he could tell it was deep. It was going to hurt like hell to walk back on. 

The line came back to life with a light crackle. "I'm sending someone to you."

" _Why_?"

"I can't answer that, but you might have caught the edge of something that ties into something Agent Wilson is looking into. He's not far from where you are. He's going to come and take a look at your deer—"

"It's not _my_ deer."

"And make sure you're okay."

"That's not necessary. I'm fine. Really."

"Bucky."

There was no arguing with her when she used that voice. "All right."

"That's better. Just hang tight until he arrives. And Bucky?"

"Yes?"

"Don't touch the deer."

The line went dead and this time it was really dead.

"As if I was going to," he said, shoving the phone in his pocket.

 The dog was still watching him.

"She's sending someone," Bucky explained. "To look at the deer. And me. And I don't know why I'm explaining things to you like you can understand me," he added, looking away to probe at his leg. He winced and kept doing it. There were definitely splinters in there. If he'd been wearing jeans, it probably wouldn't have happened. But no, he'd worn slacks to the meeting and hadn't changed out of them when he'd changed his shoes.

He sighed and glanced back at the dog. He'd moved—not closer, but to lie down, front paws stretched out, head high, ears curved forward. Bucky had the distinct feeling of being guarded. He still didn't know how to deal with the black dog's existence, or with his brilliant gold eyes, but he was touched that he'd apparently appointed himself Bucky's guardian.

He shifted around until he could put his back against the headstone, and settled in to wait, eyes on the dog. They might have stayed that way forever as the day slowly began to cool, but a distant growling noise sounded, echoed by the black dog.

Bucky turned towards the noise.

A trail bike was pulling up, bumping over the mess of vines and brush in the cemetery. The black dog gave a vaguely approving huff, Bucky glanced down, meeting those golden eyes, and he faded out of sight.

Bucky swallowed hard, his heart in his throat and pounding hard, but he made himself be calm when he turned to the bike and the man climbing off it—tall, built, close cropped hair, gun on his hip. Really good smile.

"Bucky, right?"

"Agent Wilson?"

"You can call me Sam." He stopped, surveying the scene. "Agent Romanoff gave me the heads up. You doing okay?"

"As good as I can be since Bambi there decided I had to die."

"Yeah, deer tend to hold a grudge." Sam knelt next to the deer, avoiding the pool of blood, studying it closely. He reached out, not touching it, and frowned, muttering something under his breath Bucky couldn't catch.

When he was done, he said, "Let's get you somewhere a little more comfortable than the ground."

"My apartment would be nice."

"We might have to work up to that one." Sam offered him a hand and Bucky took it, letting Sam pull him to his feet. He was wobbly and stiff and sore, but Sam scooped up his pack with one hand and tucked the other under his elbow, supporting his weight as he led Bucky out of the cemetery and settled him on a pile of tumbled stones.

"Okay, Bucky, think you can tell me what happened," he asked. "while I take a look at your leg?"

"Sure. There's a first aid kit in my pack." He made a face at his blood-crusted pants-leg. "I should have done it already, but I was kind of distracted."

"Hey, no judgement. Let's just get it dealt with."

Sam pulled a wicked looking knife from Bucky wasn't sure where and split the leg of his pants up to the knee. Bucky didn't flinch, which he was pretty sure was responsible for Sam's amused smile. While Sam gently probed the deep gouge on Bucky's calf, using Bucky's water bottle to wash away the dried blood, Bucky explained what had happened, starting with looking up to find the deer standing in his path.

He told the truth right up until the end, wincing as Sam pulled a couple of big splinters out of his leg, and then he...bent it slightly.

"I tripped over some stones, ate dirt, the deer was on me, so I curled up to protect myself, and that's when I heard snarling. By the time I unrolled, the deer was dead and I was alone. I didn't move, trying to figure out if whatever had gone after it was going to come after me, then I started singing at the top of my lungs, hoping to scare it off—you know, like you do for bears?—and I guess it worked because here I am."

"You started singing." Sam's hands paused in wrapping the bandage around his leg.

"I couldn't think of anything else to do."

"What did you sing?"

"Waterloo."

Sam stared at him.

"By ABBA?"

"I know who it's by, I just can't figure out why in the hell you'd be singing it."

"It was on the radio. Guess it was stuck in my head."

"Waterloo," Sam said under his breath. "Unbelievable."

But he didn't sound like he thought Bucky was lying, which was all Bucky wanted. He didn't know if he was protecting the black dog or protecting himself, but he knew he didn't want to tell anyone about him. Maybe he was protecting them both. He didn't know Sam. Maybe he'd think Bucky was crazy if he said _a black dog came out of nowhere and saved me, then vanished into nothing_. Maybe he'd just chalk It up to shock and adrenaline.

Probably it'd be fine to tell him, but he didn't want to. He didn't want to expose the dog. Even if he couldn’t exist, the black dog had saved him.

"All right. You're done. You stay here, I'm going to call someone to come and deal with the deer," Sam said as he stood.

"Do you have any idea what was wrong with it?"

Sam scratched his chin thoughtfully. "Don't take this as gospel, but there's a lot of problems with meth labs out here in places like this. People set 'em and forget 'em, come back when they're done, so you get a lot of leaks and contamination. Now I want you to imagine what a deer with a gutful of meth-contaminated grass would act like."

Bucky shuddered, because it was a horrifying thought—a horrifying thought that explained a lot.

"Exactly. I'll be right back."

While Sam walked far enough away Bucky couldn't overhear his call, Bucky considered his leg. It _hurt_ , and driving—at least, driving safely—was going to be a pain in the ass.

"Ready to go?" Sam asked when he came back. "I'm under strict orders to take you home."

Bucky squinted up at him. "You really don't have to do that."

"Yeah, I really do."

He opened his mouth to protest, but Sam held up a hand. "Look, Bucky. Truth is, no one ordered me, but Romanoff asked me to. And when she asks you to do something for someone, I'm not inclined to say no." He grinned. "Apart from anything else, it means she'll owe me a favour, but you're going to have to face it, you're on her radar. There aren't a hell of a lot of people who can say that."

Bucky just stared tiredly up at him and Sam shook his head in amusement.

"Come on, man. Let's get you home. Things'll make more sense in the morning." He shrugged. "Or maybe they won't, but at least you'll have had some sleep."

It tweaked Bucky's sense of humour and he laughed under his breath. "True." Sam held out his hand and he took it, letting himself get pulled to his feet. He couldn't hide the wince. "Jesus, fuck, that's sore."

Sam winced in sympathy and offered Bucky his elbow. "Shall we?"

"I feel like you're escorting me to the prom," Bucky grumbled, but he took Sam's elbow, letting him take some of his weight as they limped back through the woods. Sam seemed to know exactly where they were going, even as Bucky occasionally pointed the way. "Hey, what about your bike?"

"They'll pick it up when they deal with the deer."

"I suppose I can't ask exactly what you were doing out here? Meth labs seem a little ordinary for Shield."

"Mmm, you can _ask_ all you want."

"But if you told me you'd have to kill me?"

"Nope, worse. I'd have to consult Shield's _How to manage requests for classified information_ policy." Sam sounded unimpressed. "That was one of yours, wasn't it?" 

"It was."

"All thirty-seven pages of it?"

"Hey, it's not my fault Agent Coulson wanted every possible situation covered."

Sam made an unimpressed noise.

"I made a flowchart," Bucky protested. "Follow it and you won't have to read more than three, four pages, tops. If you decided to read the whole thing, that's on you."

Sam made a deeply doubtful noise, which Bucky opted to ignore—it really wasn't his fault the thing had ended up so damn long—and they made the rest of the way to the car in not uncomfortable silence. By the time they got there, Bucky's leg was throbbing and when Sam dropped him into the passenger seat he let out a groan.

"You want to dig a couple of aspirin out of that first aid kit of yours?" Sam asked as he slid into the driver's seat and put the backpack in Bucky's lap, resting his hand on Bucky's shoulder with a serious look. "And you should try and get some rest on the drive back. It'll help your leg heal faster."

Bucky made a doubtful noise, but Sam was looking at him intently, didn't seem at all interested in letting go until Bucky did what he'd said, so he dug into his pack and pulled a couple out. Sam nodded approvingly, gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze and Bucky washed them down with the dregs of his water. He didn't know if they'd do much, but they couldn’t hurt.

"Okay, where am I going?" Sam asked as he slid into the driver's seat.

He gave Sam his address, watched as he plugged it into the GPS, pulled on his seatbelt, and let his head fall back against the headrest. After a moment, he closed his eyes.

Sam's voice sounded far away as he said, "Get some sleep. We've got a ways to go."

 

*   *   *

 

He woke up when the car stopped, opening his eyes to the sight of his apartment building. For a moment, he didn't understand what was happening, his mind a jumble of the ache in his calf, a black shadow and teeth flashing below golden eyes.

Had he been bitten by a dog?

He turned his head to find… Sam. Agent Wilson. The Shield agent Natasha had sent to deal with the strangeness of the deer, watching him patiently.

"You with me?"

"Yeah," he croaked, then cleared his throat and tried again. "Yeah, I'm with you. Sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry for. You've had a hell of a day."

"I can't believe I slept the whole way." He rubbed his eyes and covered a yawn.

There was satisfaction in Sam's smile as he said, "It was good for you. You obviously needed it."

"I guess I did."

They both got out of the car, Bucky leaning on it as Sam locked up.

"You need a hand getting upstairs?" Sam asked.

"Nah, I should be fine." His leg didn't feel anywhere near as bad as it had. Maybe he should have had more faith in the power of aspirin and naps. "How are you going to get…home?"

"Don't worry about me. I've got a ride coming. You just look after yourself. Your leg should be okay, but if starts giving you trouble, go see a doctor about it and call me." He slid a card across the roof of the car and Bucky snagged it. "Shield will cover it."

"Thanks." He felt like he should say something more, but his brain was mushy and soft.

Sam shook his head. "Don't even worry about it." He came around the car to give Bucky the keys. "Off you go now."

Bucky pulled the strap of his backpack over his shoulder, nodded at Sam, said, "Thanks again," one more time, then headed into the building, so grateful he was on the first floor that he could cry. Just because his leg didn't hurt like it had didn't mean it had stopped hurting all together.

Once he was inside with the door locked, he dropped his backpack on the floor, stripped down to his underwear, and collapsed face down on the bed. He was asleep in seconds, and his dreams were filled with shadowy black dogs, watching him out of molten gold eyes, standing between him and any waiting nightmares.

 

*   *   *

 

For Steve, nightfall didn't bring darkness. Even with the sun gone, with the moon nothing but a tiny sliver above, the cemetery was awash in silver light.

This was his territory; nothing in it was hidden from him.

He'd known the second Bucky—not that he'd known his name then—had crashed across the cemetery border. He'd been able to feel desperation pouring off him with every pained breath. _Wrongness_ had oozed off the big buck deer chasing him, every hoof strike tainting the ground.

The deer had pulsed like an infected wound in his awareness, sick and vicious, but Bucky had been clean and clear under his desperation, under his wisps of fear.

The mantle of the black dog had fallen to him when he'd saved the little hound. Alone in the cemetery, he'd never expected to save anyone else. But Bucky had fallen and he'd acted without thought, tearing the deer away from him and putting it down.

Maybe—probably, definitely—he should have vanished again when the deed was done, the memory of the couple a warning that he shouldn’t be seen, but Bucky had felt _clean_ , and he'd looked at Steve with something like wonder, with no trace of avarice.

It was the first time in an eternity Steve had felt the closeness of another soul and, stupid or not, a risk or not, he'd stayed. Only Sam's arrival, with his clean predator’s heart, had broken him out of it and, satisfied Sam was no threat to Bucky, he’d vanished.

He'd stayed close though, listening, watching, so when two more people showed up he wasn't surprised.

What he didn’t know was why they paused at the cemetery’s border. It was only for a moment, a moment in which they traded cautious glances, then they stepped over, picking their way through the vines, careful not to tread on any graves, and approached the dead deer. Neither of them touched it.

"This is disgusting," the woman said, pushing long red hair back behind her ear as she studied the deer. "Who would _do_ this to an animal?"

The man wrinkled his nose. “Someone who doesn’t give a damn about anything but what they can get. Does your Agent Wilson want the whole thing? Because I don't want to drag it through the woods. I don't even want to touch it."

"He's not _my_ Agent Wilson." She glared at him, but it had no heat. "And no one said you had to come."

"Like I was going to let my sister traipse around out here all on her own."

She glared harder. "Of the two of us, which of us is the trained agent?"

He just grinned at her, spiky blond hair flopping over his forehead, and she snorted and muttered, "Idiot," under her breath. "No, just a sample. This was the last piece he needed, he's sure who's doing it, but he needs the sample so he can prove it."

"Prove it to _who_?" he asked, incredulous.

She gave him a _look_. "To himself, to the others."

He shook his head. "You people make everything so complicated. Life's much easier when you make your own rules." He drew a knife, crouched next to her, carved a careful chunk out of the deer's shoulder, and slid it into a bag, which he sealed. "Sample," he said, offering it to her. "As requested."

She took it and said, "Back up."

He took two steps back and she crouched over the deer. Steve couldn’t see exactly what she did, but fire erupted out of the deer, burning hot and bright, covering its body and spreading over the pooled blood. It touched nothing else.

Half an hour later, where the deer had been nothing was left but a scattering of ash.

The man cocked his head and a breeze whipped up, blowing the ash into a swirling tornado, scattering it to the four winds.

Without another word, they grabbed the bike and left, its growl fading into the distance. Steve stared after them.

They'd smelled of nothing but themselves, sharp and bright. Where the deer had been, where its blood had soaked into the ground, the taint of wrongness was gone leaving only a faint, lingering hint of ash and a sharp electric tang.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I commissioned art of Steve as the black dog from the wonderful and talented [Jademere](http://jademere.tumblr.com/): 


	4. Chapter 4

Bucky was cocooned in blankets and sheets and the quilt, nested up until he could barely move. He blinked awake from a memory of golden eyes to the sound of a persistent buzz.

His brain took a minute to come online and figure out the noise was his phone vibrating. He freed an arm and stretched, grunting with effort, until he managed to snag his pants and reel them in, digging around until he found his phone in the pocket.

There were two missed calls from Natasha and a text message that just said: _Open the door_.

He blinked at it. Blinked at it some more, then hauled himself out of bed, wrapped the quilt securely around himself, and limped out to open the front door, knowing Natasha would value speed over appearance. 

She was standing in the hallway, leaning on the wall, a paper bag in one hand, gazing out the window. She looked perfect, like she always did, red hair reflecting the sun.

"Morning?" he offered around a hastily covered yawn.

"I was beginning to wonder if you were alive in there." Her words were calm, her voice cool, but her small smile was warm with mischief.

"Still alive, just tired as hell." He smiled back and it rapidly spiralled out of his control, turning into a grin so warm he could feel it lighting up his cheeks. "Thanks for sending Sam."

"No one really sends Sam anywhere. When I filled him in, he decided he needed to see what was going on." She held up the bag. "Are you going to invite me in?"

He stepped back out of her way, gesturing her to come inside, closing the door behind her. "Give me a minute to get dressed?"

She headed for the kitchen without bothering to answer.

"Make yourself at home," he called.

"Already on it," she replied, and he could hear the clatter of cupboards and his coffee pot.

When he got back to his room he contemplated a shower, grimaced at the bandage on his leg—which really did feel better than it had any right to—and opted instead for a good dose of deodorant before pulling on a soft pair of cotton pants and a sweater, sitting on the edge of the bed to pull on socks.

Natasha was sitting at his kitchen table, the coffee maker was gurgling, there were two cinnamon buns sitting on plates on the table, and Natasha pushed the second chair out with her foot, nodding at him to join her.

"How's the leg?"

He paused, wondering, then slumped down in the chair and asked, "The limp, or did you get briefed by Sam?"

"Both." She neatly tore a piece off her cinnamon bun and popped it in her mouth, looking expectantly at Bucky.

"It's still attached. I think I thought it was a lot worse than it really was. Yesterday it felt like half my calf got gouged out and now it feels more like a bad cut. But I guess that’s not surprising is it?"

"No."

"No." He shook his head and pulled a chunk off his own roll, nowhere near as neatly as she had, and ate it. It was good, meltingly soft and sweet and his stomach woke up and informed him it was _starving._ It was all he could do not to shove the whole thing in his mouth.

As he chewed, swallowed, pulled off another piece, Natasha stood and poured two mugs of coffee, moving comfortably around his kitchen. She set a mug in front of him, sat back down, eyed him, then pushed her plate over.

He made an _are you sure face?_ at her and she nodded.

She let him drink coffee and eat in peace for a few minutes—and it was peaceful, here in the warmth and quiet of his kitchen, with maybe the deadliest person he'd ever known sitting there with him.

It was surprising and not when she eventually asked, "And how are you?"

He thought about it, then shrugged. "I think I'm okay? I was more confused than anything while it was happening. I know you guys deal with things that are much worse than that, things that are seriously dangerous, all the time, but that's not me. That's not my world, and it was," he shook his head, "it was scary." _Right up until a black dog appeared from nowhere and saved me._ "The whole thing kind of feels like a dream."

"Being scared of something trying to kill you is smart. As long as you don't panic, fear can help keep you alive." Her gaze sharpened. "Tell me about this local wildlife that intervened."

He hesitated. Lying to Natasha wouldn't be like lying to Sam. For a start, he wasn't even sure he _could._ But everything in him still balked at talking about the black dog. "I don't know," he said. "One second the deer was alive, about to pound me into the dirt, the next it was dead. I don't know what saved me. Some kind of stray dog, maybe?" He met her eyes. "I'm not questioning it, because whatever it was, it did save me."

She was searching his face, and he shrugged a little, letting her take what she wanted from his words. Everything he'd said was true, as far as it went, and as long as she didn't push…

Finally, she nodded. "Sometimes things we don't expect to happen, happen."

Bucky grinned, seizing the opportunity to change the subject. "Yes they do."

She rolled her eyes.

Bucky grinned harder.

"Don't say it."

"I have to."

"You don't."

"I really do."

"You know I can kill you with my little finger."

Bucky cocked an eyebrow at her. "You could probably kill me with a look." The corner of her mouth twitched. "Terrifying Shield agent, remember?"

"I remember. I'm not sure you do." But she was amused, he could see it in her eyes. "Fine, say it."

"And isn't it unexpected that we're friends." He laughed softly at the unimpressed look she gave him, pushing down the tiny twinge of guilt he felt at not telling her the entire truth.


	5. Chapter 5

In the week since he'd almost gotten pounded into the dirt by a deer—and he thought that should have had more of an impact on him, he kept waiting for a nightmare, or a freak out, or _something_ but they didn't come—Bucky's mind kept drifting back to the cemetery.

Not because of what had almost happened, but because it hadn't. Because of what had saved him.

Maybe. If he hadn't been hallucinating. If he hadn't imagined the whole thing.

But he hadn't made up the thump of the deer's body, the pooling blood.

Those golden eyes…

He hadn't had a nightmare, but those golden eyes haunted his dreams.

He had to go back.

But he also had to not do something stupid, like put himself in danger. Apart from anything else, Natasha would kill him. He needed a plan.

First thing, finish the policies for the clients that had taken him out there in the first place. Second, try and find out from Natasha if the meth lab or whatever it was had been dealt with, if it was safe to go back to that part of the forest. Third, if it was, go back to the cemetery.

First was simple, since it was almost done. He just had to put a last few finishing touches, insert the logos, add some inspirational quotes supplied by the client, make it look, in the client's words, 'spiffy'—he wasn't a designer by any stretch of the imagination, but even he could manage _spiffy_ —and it was finished. He sent it off, along with his invoice, and got a glowing email back, along with a copy of the bank transfer receipt. Which was very nice. Give him more _spiffy_ customers who demanded face to face meetings if they were actually going to pay on time. Hell, getting paid on time was almost worth the deer.

Second…was not so simple. Natasha's number went to the generic 'not available' that meant she was out of the country on super secret Shield business. Clint's number went to the same. He pondered his phone, tapping it against his chin. There was no knowing how long they'd be gone. It could be a few days; it could be months. That was part of being friends with them, and he automatically tamped down the worry.

Not sure if he was breaking protocol or being incredibly rude or what, he went and dug out the card Sam had given him. He hadn't needed to use it for the reason Sam had given it to him, since his leg was healing clean and quick, with no sign of infection.

The number went to voicemail, so he left a message: "Hi, Sam? It's Bucky, Bucky Barnes. You, uh, hauled me out of the woods. I don't know if you remember. I wanted to ask you about that if you have time. If not, it's not life threatening or the end of the world. And I know this isn't why you gave me your card, so if this is out of line, just ignore this message. Uh, thanks." He added his number and hung up.

He hated talking to voicemail. It turned him into a rambling, incoherent idiot.

With that done, and nothing else to do unless and until Sam took pity on him, he busied himself going through some of his other jobs, working out timelines and schedules and drafting quotes.

Bucky knew he was lucky. He'd gotten some good breaks when he'd started freelancing, gotten some big jobs with big clients—volunteering to do work for a few non-profits had gotten him work with Gjallarhorn, and after that his name had gotten around as someone who was fast, professional, easy to work with. Bucky could pick up just about any topic well enough to turn it into something accurate and readable, and he _liked_ learning new things. Sometimes he read up on whatever he was working on just for the fun of it.

He was never going to be rich, but he didn't particularly want to be. He just wanted, well, what he had now, though he wouldn't mind a bigger place if it ever came calling. But what he had was enough for him. One bedroom with a tiny second bedroom he'd turned into an office, a decent sized living room that stretched into the kitchen, and rent he could afford on his own.

He got enough offers he didn't have to take everything, he could turn people down if he didn't like what they stood for, or what their companies did, or how they treated people, and it meant sometimes he could offer his services for free. Even charities needed policies and procedures, and if they were crappy, or worse, _wrong_ , they weren't worth the paper they were printed on.

His phone ringing knocked him out of his thoughts and he realised he'd been staring at nothing long enough that his screen had gone black. He fumbled for his phone and didn't recognise the number. "Hello, James Barnes speaking."

"James Barnes, is it?"

He thought he recognised the voice. "Agent Wilson?"

"Now didn't we agree you were going to call me Sam? And what's with this James business?"

"I didn't recognise the number. And to clients, I'm usually James."

"Fair enough. Now, I think there was something you wanted," there was laughter in Sam's voice, "but your message was so all over the place it was hard to tell."

Bucky smacked himself in the forehead. "Sorry."

"Don't worry about it. Now, what can I do for you?"

"I wanted to ask…" He stopped. Saying: _I want to go back to the place I almost got eaten by a deer, so can you tell me if that's going to be safe?_ was probably not the right way to go about this. Lying to Sam—again—felt like a crappy option, though.

"Bucky?"

"Sorry. I wanted to ask, did whatever you were working on, and I know you can't tell me what it was, get sorted out? Are there going to be any more meth-addled animals out there?" 

"Why are you asking?"

"I just need to know."

There was silence on the line, and when Sam finally spoke, his voice was gentle. "You know, if what happened out there isn't sitting well with you, I can arrange for you to talk to someone."

"No!" Guilt reared up inside him like a pissed off horse. "No, it's nothing like that. I just…really need to know."

"Okay. You change your mind, though, you let me know."

"I will."

"So, to answer your question, no, there shouldn't be any more problems with the animals, or anything else, out there. Everything's been taken care of."

"That's good to know."

"Yeah, it is." There was undeniable satisfaction in Sam's voice. "Was there anything else you needed?"

"No, or, yes, actually, there's one more thing."

"What's that?"

"I figure I at least owe you a beer." Sam seemed like a good guy, who'd done a lot for Bucky when he didn't even _know_ him, and Bucky's guilt at half-lying to him was demanding he do _something_. "You know, for getting me home and everything."

"That's only worth one beer?" Sam sounded amused.

"Beer and a pizza?"

"I might just take you up on that sometime."

They said their goodbyes and Bucky stared at his blank screen.

No more problems with the animals—which was a relief on its own; the deer must have been suffering before it had died—and no more problems with anything else meant it should be perfectly safe to return to the cemetery.

 

*   *   *

 

When Bucky went back, he didn't take the same route. He pulled up the area on Google maps and plotted an alternate route, a different back road, a more direct approach that would get him to the cemetery faster.

Before he closed his browser, he hesitated. Then he shut it down without looking up ghost dogs in cemeteries or black dogs with golden eyes. He'd almost half-way convinced himself it hadn't been real. He was going back there to see for himself. He didn't need some thirteen-year old's Tumblr or DeviantArt page influencing what he remembered or what he might—probably wouldn't—see.

The drive was only a couple of hours, and he pulled his car over in a safe spot, locked it, shouldered his backpack, turned to walk into the woods…and hesitated. His heart was beating a little too fast as he gazed into the forest, the rustle of the breeze through the leaves a counterpoint to the bird calls and the sound of something small moving through the underbrush.

He reached down and rubbed his calf. It was still healing, but it was completely closed, and barely even registered as sore unless he pushed it too hard.  

Shaking his head at himself, he straightened and took a deliberate step towards the forest, and another. And then another. And then he kept going, heartbeat returning to normal. There was nothing to worry about. He _did_ keep a close eye out for any signs of deer as he navigated his way to the cemetery, but all he saw were a few birds.

It didn't take long, and he paused at the edge of the tumbled stone. There was nothing to see, no sign of the dead deer. No sign of a dog, black or otherwise.

After a few minutes, he walked into the cemetery, trying not to step anywhere near a headstone that looked like it could be a grave. He stopped about twenty feet in and waited.

Nothing happened.

A crow cawed at him from a big tree and the wind rustled its branches, but nothing else stirred.

Still he waited. After a good five minutes had passed he quietly said, "Are you here?"

Another long wait, one minute turning into ten. "I'm not leaving."

The sharp _deliberate_ sound of a stick breaking drew him around.

The black dog was standing in a headstone's shadow, watching him out of golden eyes.

Bucky let out a long, shuddering breath as his heart beat faster.

They stared at each other, neither moving, until Bucky cautiously said, "Good dog?"

The tall, pointed ears twitched, curving farther forward.

Bucky wished he hadn't left it so late in the day to come out here, wished he'd come at high noon, because the dog was a shadow, like he'd flowed from the darkness under the trees, even if his eyes were like the sun.

A light breeze played through the trees, ruffling the leaves on the vines that twined around the gravestones and tumbled stone.

"Are you real?"

The dog sat down, head tilted slightly, and yawned. Bucky got a very good view of long, sharp, white teeth.

There was something about the yawn. It was so prosaic. So ordinary. "You are real," Bucky decided. His imagination wasn't this good. Maybe it could conjure a golden-eyed dog in an adrenaline-fuelled panic, but not here and now on a quiet day. And not _yawning_.

The dog met his eyes. Their gold was bright and deep, the colour of molten gold, of metal heated for tempering. Eyes didn't come in that colour.

He stumbled back a few steps and sat down on a headstone, swallowing hard. They were the same eyes he'd been dreaming of.

"Shit."

Whatever this was, it absolutely wasn't a dog.

He should be scared. He should be, a distant part of his mind insisted, freaking out. _Stand up, walk away slowly, and don't look back_ , his sensible self was insisting, but he ignored it. He couldn't take his eyes off the black coat, the golden eyes. This black dog that couldn't be a dog had appeared from nowhere to save him before vanishing and that meant the world was stranger than he'd ever dreamed possible.

"What are you?" he breathed.

The dog's eyes seemed to glint, seemed to gleam, and his jaw dropped in what Bucky would be prepared to swear was him saying: _Wouldn’t you like to know?_

And then he vanished.

Bucky jumped up and started looking for him, even though he knew it was pointless.

"Hey, come back!" he called.

Nothing.

"I didn't get to thank you for saving me!"

Still nothing.

"Here, boy?" he tried, and a shower of sticks rained down on his head, followed by raucous cawing.

There were three crows perched in the tangled branches that stretched overhead, flapping their wings, and he scrambled backwards to avoid a second wave of clutter. "You haven’t seen a dog, have you?"

They croaked disparagingly.

"That's what I thought," he told them, then scanned the cemetery again. "I'll come back."

When there was no response, not from the crows and not from the dog, he turned and left, so preoccupied with thoughts of the mysterious black dog he forgot to worry about deer as he made his way through the forest to his car.

 

*   *   *

 

Bucky returned a few days later.

He had no particular plan beyond persistence. He brought nothing with him beyond his backpack and knowledge, because now he knew what the black dog was.

Maybe.

The internet, as always, had been as baffling as it'd been enlightening. His search had led him through site after site of the ramblings of people who desperately wanted to believe there was more to the world than there actually was. A few weeks ago, Bucky would have dismissed it as nothing but nonsense and wishful thinking.

He couldn’t do that now.

As he'd navigated through it, he'd found a lot of legends about black dogs. Eventually he'd narrowed in on something called a church grim, but it didn't _quite_ fit: it didn't take long to discover there'd never been a church anywhere near the cemetery. He'd kept digging—with a sideways slip that taught him _graveyards_ were attached to churches, but cemeteries never were—and decided church grims fit a _category_ of black dogs. Ones that guarded the dead. Ones that, apparently, were _dogs_ , real flesh and blood dogs, before they were buried.  

It had made him shiver, because if black dogs protected the dead, did that mean he'd been close before the black dog had stepped in? And it'd made him angry, because he'd been pretty damn sure no one had been waiting around for the dogs to die of natural causes.

What he hadn't found was any stories similar to what had happened to him. He didn't find much in the way of stories at all. Black dogs—even on the forums where people claimed to believe in impossible things—seemed to fall firmly in the category of _myth_.

It was just past noon when he walked into the cemetery. It was still, silent, shafts of light catching floating motes of pollen, lending a dreamlike air. This time Bucky didn't speak, didn't call out. He just made his way to the headstone he'd sat on last time, murmuring an apology to the owner, and waited patiently.

He watched the pollen motes dance in the sun. He watched three crows wing down from the sky and land on a branch. One had a dead frog clutched tightly in its beak, and he looked away as they tore it apart. A squirrel sleepily chittered its disapproval, but Bucky, glancing up to see it peeking out from a hollow in the tree, didn't think its heart was in it.

It was warm—not stifling, but blanket warm, cozy warm, and his eyelids started to droop.

He pulled his water bottle out of his pack, tilting his head back to take a long drink, and when he finished, the black dog was standing in the shadow of the tree, watching him.

"Hi," Bucky said, closing his water bottle and stowing it back in his pack. "I didn't introduce myself last time. I'm Bucky."

The dog gave an impatient huff.

"I told you I'd come back."

The dog gave him a vaguely unimpressed look.

"I know what you are now."

One ear flicked forward.

"You're a black dog."

This time the look the dog gave him was _deeply_ unimpressed.

Bucky laughed under his breath. "I didn't mean it that way. I meant it's what you are, not what you look like. Isn't it?"

There was no response from the dog. It just kept gazing at him out of golden eyes. Bucky didn't know whether he could actually understand his words, or if he was simply picking up on his tone. It was impossible to tell; he'd met a working border collie once he would sworn could understand English. 

"You're the guardian of the dead," Bucky said softly. "Of this cemetery's dead."

The golden eyes sharpened, seemed to take on a hint of warning.

"I don't," he shook his head, "I'm not going to tell anyone about you. I don't think I could. No one would believe me." He stopped, reassessing. "Okay, there's probably a whole bunch of people on the internet who'd believe me, but they believe in magic and elves and probably aliens, so I don't think they'd be any threat. Still not going to tell them, though." He leaned forward, putting everything he had into it. "You're not in any danger from me." 

The moment felt heavy. Weighted. The dog stood and paced closer, slow and deliberate, never taking his eyes off Bucky.

"I know you can hurt me," he murmured. "I don't think you're going to."

The dog stopped with his nose at Bucky's knee. Slowly, Bucky offered his hand. The dog didn't sniff it, but he did look at it, then back up at Bucky's face, then he sat, tension leaving his body in a wave.

His ears were soft, the golden glow of his eyes banked, head slightly tilted as he gazed past Bucky, watching the forest. It felt as if he'd made a decision. As if he'd accepted Bucky, as if Bucky was no longer something to be cautious of. He'd maybe become…company?

Still moving slow, he reached past the dog's head—his ear twitched; he was following Bucky's movements—and brushed his fingers over his coat. It was soft, cool, the hair long, and he could feel lean muscle beneath it.

He didn't know how long the dog had been here, alone, watching over the dead, but before it had been a black dog, a—and his mind still fought against admitting, but there no arguing the truth—supernatural creature, it had been a _dog_. A living, breathing dog, and dogs were creatures of affection.

The dog wasn't wagging his tail, but he wasn't moving away, wasn't shrugging off Bucky's touch, and Bucky gently rubbed behind his ear. It was subtle, but the dog leaned into it. His eyelids dipped. It lasted for long seconds, then the dog bounded away, shaking itself, eyeing Bucky, and vanished.

All of a sudden he felt like he'd crossed a line.

"I'm sorry," he called, but there was no answer. The dog didn't reappear. After waiting for a while, he said goodbye, and left.

 

*   *   *

 

Invisible, Steve watched Bucky go, pacing beside him until Bucky crossed the cemetery border and disappeared into the forest.

He could still feel the tingle where Bucky had touched him. It was an itch, a strangeness, and he wasn't sure what to make of it. He could have stopped it easily enough by moving away…but he hadn't.

He wasn't sure why.

Maybe it was because Bucky had figured out what he was and still hadn't hesitated, hadn't been afraid, was clear and clean and bright with no hint of _wrongness_.

When Sam had taken Bucky out of the cemetery, then taken him away, Steve had thought that would be the end.

Bucky had left, Sam had left, the young man and woman who'd come to deal with the dead deer and its wrongness had left, and the foxes and squirrels and crows had returned.

And then, entirely unexpectedly, so had Bucky.

Steve hadn't planned to show himself, except there'd been so much familiar stubbornness, so much determination, when he'd said, _I'm not leaving_ , he'd changed his mind. Bucky had smelled of peace. Well, buried under the scent of nerves and sweat and curiosity, he'd smelled of peace.

Steve had been alone for a long time and he'd never hesitated to throw himself into something, so he'd shown himself to Bucky.

And now Bucky had touched him.

Steve shook his head, pawed at his ear.

He didn't regret it, but he wondered if Bucky would come back. His curiosity had been more than satisfied. He knew what Steve was, knew he was real, had touched him—what was left for him here?

Steve pushed the thought away and let himself drift in that in-between place, where time was soft and the world didn't quite exist, where he could still hear the songs of the black dogs, still lift his voice and be heard in turn. For the first time, or maybe he'd simply never noticed before, even surrounded by their songs he still felt lonely.


	6. Chapter 6

Finding the time to drive all the way out to the dog's cemetery, and all the way back, wasn't easy, but Bucky wanted to make time. He'd found this amazing, incredible thing that was like a miracle and even knowing he existed, having the evidence of his eyes and ears and fingers, he still wanted to see him again.

This time he wasn't going empty handed.

If what he'd read was right, black dogs had been dogs first. The black dog had seemed unsure about being patted, which would make sense if he'd been alone for a long time. This trip, Bucky had something else to offer. He'd hit up the local pet store and bought what he'd been assured was the best dog toy in the world.

It was certainly one of the weirdest looking: black squidgy mesh like a wide spider's web over neon green nubs, with holes to push treats into. When he squeezed it, it let out a deep mournful squeak, like its little toy world was ending.

The way to the cemetery from the road was an easy hike and it was one he was learning very well; he was starting to know the roots across the path and the trees that always had a spider's web strung between them (he didn't break it; he always walked around).

The day was bright and sunny, the crows lined up on their branches, watching when he arrived at the cemetery. There were, he paused and counted, six of them today, staring at him. Judging him, he thought. If the black dog was the guardian of the cemetery's dead, he suspected the crows were the black dog's guardians.

They cawed and croaked at him as he walked into the cemetery and kept walking towards the middle. He turned in a slow circle, trying to see the dog, and when he was once more facing where he'd started, he was sitting there.

Bucky grinned. The dog's jaw dropped in a matching grin. 

"Hey," he said, crouching down. He put his pack on the ground and dug out the toy, giving it a little squeeze while it was still in his pack.

The black dog stared at him dubiously at the sound, like he was trying to figure out what was wrong with Bucky.

According to the woman in the pet store, no dog could resist one of these, it was their best seller, and he pulled it out of his pack and held it out. "Look what I brought!"

He waved it around a couple of times, wiggling it, then threw it up in a high arc.

The black dog tilted his head, watching it rise up into the air, watching it fall, watching it land at his feet.

The dog stared down at it for several long moments. When he lifted his head, he was wearing the most judgemental look Bucky had ever received—and he was counting Natasha's in that.

"Should I have picked something else?"

There was a long, thoughtful pause in which even the crows grew silent.

The black dog stared at Bucky, weighing him, taking his measure—or at least that's what it felt like—and then he shimmered and there was a man standing where the dog had been. An ever-so-slightly transparent man wearing old fashioned clothes. He was shorter than Bucky, thin and sharp—sharp shoulders, sharp chin, sharp gaze, so sharp Bucky thought if he got too close he'd be sliced right open—his eyes as vibrant a blue as the dog's had been gold.

Bucky's jaw dropped.

An amused smile curled the corner of the man's mouth. "That was worth it just for your reaction."

Bucky knew he should probably say something. Or run. _Something._ But he was paralysed, the world gone soft around him. Running would be pointless, like trying to push his way through a marshmallow.

The man stepped closer.

Bucky tensed.

He stopped, amusement slowly morphing into something like concern. "Are you all right?"

Was he all right? That was quite a question. "That depends," Bucky managed.

"On what?"

"Am I unconscious?" Maybe the dog toy—he winced—had whacked him on the head and he'd gotten knocked out.

"No." It was surprisingly gentle, but there were undercurrents of amusement. "You're not unconscious."

"Okay." He frowned at the ground. Tapped it. It felt solid. "Am I dreaming?" When in doubt, go with process of elimination.

The man shook his head.

"That's a shame."

"I'm something you'd like to dream about?"

More amusement there, but Bucky nodded slowly. He'd been dreaming of golden eyes for so long now, he wasn't sure what he'd do if they were gone, but he had a feeling after this they were going to be joined by vibrant blue.

The man didn't seem to know what to do with that, so he shrugged. "You're not unconscious. You're not dreaming. And in the interests of not playing twenty questions, not that it's not great to talk to someone after all this time, you're not hallucinating, I'm not a mirage, and yes, this is really happening."

"I've only got your word for that."

"It's good, I promise."

"And I've only got your word for _that_."

The man frowned. "You're not okay, are you?"

Bucky laughed, strangled and verging on the hysterical. "I don't know. Were you just a dog?"

"That's a complicated question. How about you sit down."

He did as he was told, stumbling back a few steps to sit on a small, square headstone, looking up at the man expectantly. Except… "You're not a man, are you."

"I'm male, but that's not what you're asking, is it?"

Bucky shook his head.

"No, I'm not a man."

"Ghost?"

He waggled his hand.

Bucky put his head in his hands. "I'm losing my mind," he breathed.

When he lifted his head, the whatever-he-was had subtly changed. He seemed taller, power suffusing his skinny frame, and his blue eye were rimmed in gold. "I'm the black dog." It held weird harmonics, sent goosebumps racing over Bucky's skin, like they were desperate to escape. "Guardian, protector. I watch over all within the boundaries of my territory." The wind was rising, whipping through the trees, through Bucky's hair. "I will let no one come to harm."

Bucky swallowed hard. "You saved me."

"Yes." The gold faded. The wind stilled. "I did."

"Thank you." The smile on that narrow, slightly transparent face was glorious, beautiful. "What's your name?" he found himself asking.

"When I was human and alive, I was called Steve."

"Can I call you that?"

"Sure."

"Steve," he said, trying it out, and saw him shudder. "Are you sure it's okay to use it?"

"Yeah." He sounded…breathless. Shocked. "It's been a long time. I'd forgotten…" He trailed off, shaking his head.

Bucky looked around the cemetery—overgrown, lost, abandoned, its dead forgotten—and his heart clenched. "How long have you been here?"

"Long enough." He sat down on a headstone across from Bucky. "Long enough." A glint of humour flashed in the blue. "And your name's _really_ Bucky?"

It was such a standard reaction, Bucky felt himself relaxing. "It's actually James, but no one calls me that unless it's official, formal, or I'm getting in trouble, but don't blame me for it. I got landed with it as a kid and it stuck."

"No, Bucky's great."

Bucky grumbled, and Steve grinned at him. This was so strange, too strange, too _impossible._ The black dog was one thing, but this was… He could _see through Steve_ , see the shadows of trees and headstones and the rusted remnants of the fence that marked the cemetery's border, but Steve was grinning at him like this was normal.

"Why did you save me?"

Steve's grin faded like the setting sun. "You would have preferred I just stood by and watched?"

"No, no that's not what I meant. I'm grateful. I don't—" How did he say thank you, _really_ say thank you, not just mouth the words to someone—something? He studied Steve, the look in his eyes, and decided no, this was a _someone_ , no matter how impossible—for saving you. "I guess I just don't understand why."

"My duty is to protect." The words shivered down Bucky's spine, carried on a near-growl, harmonics that could never come from a human throat.

"You didn't have a choice?"

Gold rimmed the blue once more, eerie, strange, and the memory of a black shadow with flashing teeth was very close, but Bucky wasn't afraid. "I had a choice. And I made the choice to save you."

His eyes held Bucky's, Bucky couldn't look away, his heart beat like a caged bird's, and Steve leaned forward.

"My choice." Steve shook himself like a dog shedding water, breaking their gaze, and Bucky looked away with a grateful breath. "If I'd known you were going to make such a fuss about it, maybe I wouldn't have."

That had him looking sharply at Steve, but there was mischief in the purely blue eyes, and Bucky tentatively smiled. Steve returned it.

"So, why are you here?" Steve asked after a bit.

"I needed to know if you were real," Bucky admitted.

"I know that," Steve said, rolling his eyes. "You told me that. I mean, why are you still here. Why did you come back?"

Bucky tried not to look at the dog toy sitting on the ground, and failed, his eyes drawn inexorably to it. Steve followed his gaze and went to scoop it up, returning to sit on the headstone. He gave it a squeeze. It squeaked, long and loud and mournful.

Bucky winced. "Sorry, I thought…"

"You thought?"

"I thought you were a dog." Nausea rolled through him as he watched Steve roll the dog toy between his hands. "They _are_ dogs."

Steve cocked his head.

"Black dogs. They're _not_ people, but you…you are. Did someone, did they make you into this? Were you," he didn't want to ask, he didn't want to know, but at the same time he had to, "killed for this?" 

"No." It was so absolute, Bucky's fears faded. "The black dog of this cemetery was a dog." There was a warm, distant smile on Steve's face, but Bucky thought it was a little sad around the edges. "She was waiting when I…woke up, I guess. I was the last person buried here, and it was half way to being abandoned even then. I was poor as well as poorly when I died, no money to be buried in the fancy city graveyard, which is why I ended up here."

Steve was weighing him, judging him. Bucky could _feel_ it.

"Something happened. I took up the mantle of the black dog. The dog went on to wherever good dogs go when they die."

" _Something_ happened?" Steve turned a look of warning on him and Bucky raised his hands. "Sorry. Okay. I won't ask."

Steve nodded in approval, but it did nothing to banish the prickling of Bucky's skin, like he'd rolled in nettles. Something had happened to Steve. Something had made him this way. Something he wasn't willing to talk about. But already Bucky knew better than to ask, not after a look like that, gold bleeding into the blue.

"Sorry about the dog toy, though."

Steve broke into a grin. "No need. It was," he tossed it up in the air and caught it, "a nice thought." He chucked it back to Bucky, who caught it. "I'm sure you can find a dog to give it to."

"Yeah, I can find it a home."

He was sitting in a cemetery, talking to maybe a ghost, talking to a black dog… No, talking to _Steve_ , Steve, who'd saved him.

Steve, who was staring back at him curiously. "Something catch your eye?"

"You," he said honestly.

Steve narrowed his eyes.

"You're, I don't even understand how any of this is possible."

"You can't know everything, Bucky."

Steve was right, he knew, but Bucky had no idea how to fit the idea of Steve into his life, how to twist and turn the fact of his existence so that it sat easy and comfortable with what he _knew_ was true and real, but it didn't matter. It didn't matter because _Steve_ was real.

Bucky kept gazing at him and it was like the world fell away, just the two of them left, Bucky getting lost in Steve's eyes, drowning in the blue.

Right up until an acorn went flying past Steve's nose.

Steve scowled and glared up into a tree. "Damn squirrels."

Bucky had to cover his mouth to hold in a laugh, wonder dissipating like summer mist.

"They think they own the place."

"I'm sure they do."

Steve grumbled and silence once more fell between them, but this one was comfortable. Warm. Bucky taking in every detail of Steve. He seemed to have grown more solid, as if Bucky's attention had drawn him closer to here and now, only vague hints of shadowy trees visible through him. He was brighter, colour sparking to life in his old-fashioned clothes, in his hair, where before only his eyes had been that deep and vibrant blue.  

 

*   *   *

 

Bucky was staring at him, but Steve didn't mind much. It wasn't the kind of freak gaze he could remember getting back when he was alive. Bucky was staring at him like Steve had jumped out of a storybook, and Steve didn't mind letting him look his fill.

He took his time glaring up at the squirrels.

"Can you leave?"

He took his time, weighing up whether to answer or not. In the end, he figured it couldn’t hurt. "No. When I became the black dog, I was bound to the cemetery. I can't cross the border. I'm stuck here." His cast his eyes over the cemetery, with its tumbled headstones, overgrown vines, shifting shadows, its crows and squirrels. "A protector with no one to protect."

Bucky looked down, worrying at his bottom lip. "Until me," he finally said.

Steve tipped his head towards Bucky. "Until you."

"I don't know what to say."

Steve slipped down to sit on the ground and made himself comfortable, leaning back against the headstone. "There's really nothing to say."

A look of dissatisfaction crossed Bucky's face. A breath of stubbornness. "Well, then what can I bring you?"

"How do you mean?"

"Well, the dog toy's obviously not going to work."

Steve cracked a grin, not even pretending not to laugh at Bucky, even though he was touched that he'd thought to do it. Of everyone he'd met in his life, he didn't think there was a single person who, having encountered something like a black dog, would think of bringing it a toy.

"Yeah, yeah. But seriously, Steve," oh, and he had to fight not to shiver hearing his name after so long, "there must be something I can bring you."

"I can't imagine what."

Bucky didn't say anything for a bit, just gazed at Steve. His eyes were grey-blue, like a storm-warning sky, and Steve could see emotions flowing through them like rolling clouds.

After a moment, he paused, seemingly changing the subject. "I've gotta ask. Is it rude for me to be sitting on this?" He pointed at the headstone he was sitting on.

"They're all gone," Steve said seriously. "They've been gone for a long time. The only thing left of the dead is bones, and I promise you, the bones don't care. Everyone laid to rest here is gone," he grinned a little, because Bucky was sitting on _his_ headstone, "everyone but me, and I promise, I don't mind."

Bucky sat straighter, blinking a little. "Right. Got it." He chewed his bottom lip. "What about books?"

"Books?" If Steve had been in his other shape, his ears would have pricked up.

"Yeah," he said and went on slowly, thoughtfully, "books. I could easily bring you things to read. I don't think an e-reader's a good idea, solar chargers aren't that reliable, but paper books don't need charging, and the way you handled the toy, you could manage them, no problems."

Steve cocked his head.

"Or if books aren't a good idea, I can think of something else. Audio books maybe, but there's still the charging problem. An old iPod could work, I've still got mine somewhere and those batteries lasted forever. But I don't know how headphones would go."

Bucky frowned to himself. Steve stared at him.

"Do you know if you disrupt electronics? Ghosts in movies always do, but they can't carry things the way you can. Speakers might not be a good idea, unexplained noise out here could attract attention, and you'd still have to touch the iPod."

He frowned harder, tapping his fingers on his knee. Steve kept staring.

"An old radio, maybe a _really_ old one, with fewer parts, but they're expensive. I could check out eBay, though, see if I could find you something."

"Bucky."

"Some of the shit you're going to hear on the radio, though, Steve, I don't know."

"Bucky?"

"I know, something's better than nothing. We could give it a try. And there's some good all music stations, with no news. Those would be the best."

"BUCKY!" He put a growl in it, felt it vibrate in the air, and Bucky stopped, staring at him wide-eyed. "Stop for a second."

Bucky blinked at him, then he sighed. "Sorry."

"No," Steve said. "It's okay. But I have no idea what most of what you just said means. And books are fine. Books would be," some of the wonder he was feeling leaked into his voice, "books would be amazing."

"What do you like to read?"

"Anything," he said fervently. "Anything."

Bucky smiled. "Anything it is."  He paused. "Do you want me to explain the stuff I was talking about?"

"If you don't mind." It had sounded fascinating, even if the only thing Steve had really understood was the radio.

"Right." Bucky started to reach into his backpack, then hesitated. "Do you know if you screw up electronics?"

"No idea."

"Okay, then I'm going to skip the practical demonstration. I can't afford to replace my phone if it gets fried. Okay?"

"Whatever you say."

"Okay, so an e-reader is about this big," he sketched out a rectangle in the air, "powered by electricity, and it holds thousands of books. You can carry it around with you wherever you go, and you just have to plug it in once every couple of days and let it charge."

"Bullshit," Steve said, wide-eyed with fascination.

"No bullshit," Bucky laughed. "Totally serious."

"Tell me about the rest. Tell me about all of it." He shuffled closer to Bucky.

"Okay, well," he stared up into the sky, frowning in thought, "let's start with the internet."


	7. Chapter 7

The one thing Bucky regretted was not asking Steve when he'd died.

Scratch that. Put like that, it sounded _terrible_.

What he should have done was ask him when he was born. It would have given him a better idea of what books to get him. In the end, he went with a selection of classics, some pulpy SF (which he secretly loved) and a few bits and pieces of other genres across a selection of years.

He found a guaranteed waterproof box at an online hunting goods store, in an unfortunately startling orange, big enough to hold them all. When it arrived, he packed them in, loaded up the car with it, his laptop, his spare battery and the kind of dodgy solar charger, and headed out.

He managed to carry it all in one sweaty trip, glad it was still early morning, glad there was no one around to see him pulling faces, because the waterproof box wasn't unmanageably heavy, but it was awkward.

When he arrived in the cemetery, he wondered if he was becoming sensitive to it, because he'd swear he could almost feel a tingle in his skin when he stepped over the border. Steve was nowhere to be seen, so Bucky hauled the box over, sat down on the headstone, and waited.

Before long, Steve appeared. He was the black dog, golden eyes bright and gleaming, as he trotted over to nose at the box. He lifted his head to look at Bucky in question.

Bucky was struck by how much Steve looked the same in both shapes. Not obviously, not outwardly, but in small ways. In the way he held himself, in the way he looked at Bucky, in the sharpness of him, the leanness of him.

Steve huffed, shaking Bucky out of his thoughts. He'd been staring at him again. "Right." He unlatched the box, undoing the clasp, and flipped up the lid, releasing the scent of old paper.

Steve shimmered, shifting, reaching in to lift out a book, eyes shining. "I didn't think you'd actually bring them," he murmured.

Bucky wasn't sure Steve had meant to say it out loud. He decided to pretend he hadn’t heard. "If none of those are what you're interested in, let me know. I'll find you something different," he said instead.

Steve just shook his head, pulling out the others, sitting cross-legged so he could pile them in his lap, fingers stroking gently over the covers.

"Plus I brought my laptop. I thought," now that he was here, he was rethinking what had seemed like such a good idea, "I thought I could spend the day here?" Steve turned to stare at him. "I have to work, but I can do that wherever I want. And I brought the spare battery and the charger. And lunch. It should get me through most of the day."

"You want to sit here with me and work."

Bucky lifted one shoulder. "If you're okay with it."

"Why?"

He didn't know how to answer that. _Because you need the company_ sounded like pity, and it wasn't quite right. _Because I want to_ wasn't quite right, either, though both were close. In the end, he went with, "Because."

"Okay," Steve finally said. "But I'm not going to entertain you."

Bucky laughed and got himself settled. "You're a lousy host, Steve. Anyone ever tell you that?"

"Hey, once you're dead, you don't have to worry about etiquette." He ran his fingers over the books again, plucked one up, and put the rest back in the box, carefully sealing it. "And I have a book to read."

"Oh, hey. Before you start reading." Bucky dug into his pack and pulled out the cheap calculator he'd picked up just for this purpose. "Here." He held it out to Steve. "Play around with that, will you? See if it breaks."

Steve took it, and turned it over in his hands, frowning. "It's for doing math?" 

"Yeah, it's a calculator." It was on the tip of his tongue to ask _when did you die?_ , but he couldn't quite get the question out. Between Steve's clothes and the fact that he didn't know what a calculator was, he knew it hadn't been anytime recent.

Steve ran his fingers over it, then hit the 'on' button with a little pleased noise, started tapping numbers, nodding to himself occasionally. "Wouldn't have minded having one of these in school," he said after a few minutes.

"And it's still working, so we know you don't affect electronics."

"Guess so," Steve said absently, still tapping numbers into the calculator.

"Another thing movies get wrong," Bucky said, watching him and smiling faintly. 

He settled in with his laptop, leaving Steve to his book and the calculator.

Steve eventually put the calculator down, tucking it into the orange box, and picked up his book, settling cross-legged near Bucky to read.

It was strange to work like this, out in the open, with the sounds of the forest around him, with Steve sitting close by.  Strange, but not bad. As he worked, he could feel Steve's eyes on him and he glanced over only to find Steve _wasn't_ looking at him. He was looking at Bucky's laptop. Stealing glances at Bucky's laptop. Quick looks, then looking away.

Bucky hid a smile. "Do you want to try it?"

"What?"

He tapped the top of his laptop.

"No, you're busy. You need to work."

He saved his file, closed it, then beckoned Steve closer. "Here, I'll show you."

"No, it's okay."

"Steve, come here." He tilted his laptop so Steve could see the screen and Steve, after a moment's more hesitation, moved closer. "I'll run you through the basics, then you can have a go."

It didn't take long to show Steve how to use it, Steve frowning fiercely as he watched and listened, and then he handed it over. Not without a moment's trepidation, because it was way more complicated than a calculator—but there was no torrent of sparks, no ominous puffs of smoke, just Steve, in his old-fashioned pants and button-up shirt, laptop balanced on his knees, the cemetery visible _through_ him, poking at the keys.

He couldn't use the touch pad. It didn't want to acknowledge his existence, so Bucky worked the mouse for him, moving it where Steve pointed.

It was amazing how quickly he picked it up. He hadn't known what a calculator was, and here was, navigating his away around, figuring out file structures, asking _intelligent_ questions. It was more than some people who'd grown up with computers managed.

After a while, he leaned back, shaking his head in amazement. "That's something else."

"Yeah, I guess it is." And it was, looking at it through Steve's eyes.

"You better get your work done, though." He passed it back to Bucky and picked up his book in a way that left no room for argument. "Thanks for showing it to me."

"No problem, Steve."

Steve gave him a brilliant smile and Bucky settled in to work.

The rest of the day passed in companionable silence, Bucky frowning at his laptop, Steve reading his book. By lunchtime Bucky had a sore back, and a touch of a headache from the glare on his screen, but he didn't mind. Steve looked so _happy._ Bucky watched him while he ate his lunch, Steve so engrossed in the book he didn't seem to feel Bucky's gaze, but when Bucky stretched to his feet to take a walk around the cemetery, needing to move after a morning spent sitting, the black dog was there beside him, gold eyes gleaming with mischief.

"Do you like to do dog things?" Bucky asked.

Steve made judgemental eyes at him and Bucky hid a smile.

"You know, chase a stick? I could throw one for you."

The eyes got more judgemental and Steve thwapped him with his tail.

"Guessing that's a no."

"You guessed right," Steve said, shifting shapes. "Do I want to chase a stick. How about I throw one for you?"

"No thanks, I'm happy with a slow stroll."

Steve scoffed and went back to his book. After a bit, Bucky followed suit, going back to his laptop, shutting it down to swap batteries before resuming work.

When the day started to cool, Bucky packed up his gear and put on his backpack. Steve marked his page and followed Bucky to the cemetery's border. They stopped, standing together.

"I'll be back as soon as I can," Bucky said.

"You don't have to."

"I know. I will anyway."

Steve nodded, then pulled himself to his full height, which barely reached Bucky's chin—it surprised Bucky, because he always seemed so much taller—and said, "Thank you. For the books. For showing me your computer. For the company. For…" He trailed off, like he didn't know how to finish.

"Don't worry about it," Bucky said. "It was a good day."

"It was." Steve smiled, and Bucky answered it, and for just a moment the late afternoon was as bright as midday.


	8. Chapter 8

Bucky went out as often as he could, working the driving time around his schedule. He made his own hours, he worked when he wanted to, where he wanted to and now that included the cemetery. If it sometimes made for a long day, he didn't begrudge it.

Seeing Steve light up when he arrived, even if he tried to hide it, made it worth it.

That didn't mean there weren't times Bucky just _stopped_ , his sensible self insistently reminding him that Steve was _dead_ , that he was visiting a _dead man_ , a dead man who turned into a _dog_. When that happened he had to sit down, take a moment, because his sensible self was right. Steve was dead. He was a ghost— _maybe_ ; Bucky remembered the hand waggle—he was a black dog, he was impossible, but Steve was a person, too.  He was bright and clever and a _person_ , and he was all alone out there. The books would help fill his time, but it wasn't the same as having company, and Bucky was all he had.

It felt like a heavy responsibility, but it was one he was willing to shoulder. He liked Steve. Not because Steve had saved him, not because Steve was an impossible curiosity that couldn't exist, not because Steve needed him. Just because Steve was Steve. 

 

*   *   *

 

Bucky _wasn't_ a huge fan of going to clients and the guy sitting across the desk from him was a perfect example of why. It wasn't the slicked back blond hair or the too-expensive suit (that didn't even fit right, and yes, Bucky was judging him hard). It wasn't the cheesy motivational posters on the walls, the insincere smile, the constant sniffing, or the unsuccessful attempt at a knuckle breaker handshake that Bucky had long-ago learned how to eel out of. All of those made this guy—whose name was Boscoe, and that was almost enough to pique Bucky's sympathy—irritating. It was the fact that there was absolutely no reason for Bucky to be here that drove him crazy.

Bucky was sitting in a beige office, inside an even beiger office building, listening to Boscoe's incessant sniffing while they went through one of Bucky's standard questionnaires. The one designed for clients to fill out on their own that in no way required Bucky's presence. But Boscoe's employers were paying Bucky good money to prepare a full set of policies for this branch, the first in the state. If they were happy with him, it could potentially expand into more work. For that, he could put up with the Amazing Sniffing Boscoe.

He'd much rather be sitting in the cemetery talking to Steve. Hell, he could be working on this right now if Boscoe has just filled out the questionnaire when Bucky had sent it to him, but no. Boscoe needed personalised attention.

"James, explain this question." Even Boscoe's voice was annoying, oozing out of his mouth like a jellied creature escaping the sea.

"Which one?"

"Number eight."

Question eight couldn't be more self-explanatory if it stood up and read itself aloud. Bucky didn't sigh. He pasted on his best client smile, said, "No problem," and tried to explain it in a way that didn't sound sarcastic.

 

*   *   *

 

Bucky spent the next two days working at home. He had Skype meetings scheduled with clients on both of those days, and they couldn't be conducted from a cemetery—even if the signal had been reliable enough out there, he wasn't sure how he'd explain the setting.

On the third day, he woke up and the first thing he did was curse Boscoe's name. "This is why I hate offices," he told the ceiling, which didn't seem interested.

"And Boscoe," he added for good measure. "Stupid sniffing bastard."

He'd thought the sniffing was an annoying habit (and in his less charitable moments, as the meeting that wouldn't end had dragged ever on, possibly evidence of a coke habit) but no. No, of course not. The Amazing Sniffing Boscoe had had a damn cold and dragged him into his circle of infection.

His head was completely stuffed, he could barely breathe, his joints were aching, and he felt like death. Groaning, he dragged himself out of bed, heading for the bathroom and the cold drugs. He knew he had some in there and he was almost positive they weren't expired.

An hour later, the maximum allowable amount of drugs shoved into his system along with coffee, tea with honey because after the coffee his throat had decided to get in on the game and start hurting, and a long shower, he felt like he could probably pass for human.

Boscoe had already kept him from seeing Steve once. He wasn't going to do it again.

 

*   *   *

 

Steve always knew the moment Bucky crossed the border of the cemetery, but he usually waited to show himself. It was entertaining to surprise him, to slide out of a shadow or simply appear, standing where Bucky had already looked.

Bucky didn't mind, always seemed amused by it, even on the few occasions Steve managed to pull an undignified squawk out of him. 

He tried not to expect Bucky. Tried not to wait for him. There was almost a routine to when Bucky came, sometimes just to stay for a few hours, sometimes for the whole day, setting up with his computer (and that had blown his mind, the things people were capable of now) and working, but they didn't talk about it. They never planned.

Every time Bucky left, Steve reminded himself he might not come back. Every time he left, Steve couldn’t tamp down on the hope that he would. Every time, Bucky had.

Normally when Bucky arrived, he couldn’t hold back the little rush of happiness. This time, though… Steve stayed invisible, shifting from the dog, and stared at Bucky. He looked awful. His eyes were red, his skin was pale, he was hunched over and wrapped in a thick jacket over a sweater. Steve didn't feel temperature, wasn't affected by the weather, but he thought that was overkill for the day.

He walked over to his usual headstone, which he still didn't know was Steve's, sank down onto it, and wrapped his arms around himself.

"You look like shit," Steve said as he appeared in front of him.

Bucky raised his head. "I'm fine," he croaked, and smiled. Even looking like something that had crawled out of one of these graves, it was still beautiful, warm and so genuinely happy to see him Steve swayed forward a step.

"You're also a liar. What's wrong with you?"

"Got a cold from the Amazing Sniffing Boscoe," Bucky scowled, "the asshole."

Steve had no idea what an Amazing Sniffing Boscoe was, and he wasn't going to ask. "You sure it's just a cold? You really don't look good."

Old instinct or long-buried memory, he didn't know which, had him raising his hand and gently pressing it against Bucky's forehead. They both went still. Then Steve gave a strangled laugh, saying, "I don't know why I thought that would work," trying to pull his hand away, but Bucky was leaning into it, eyes half closing.

"Feels good. It feels cool."

Steve stood still for a moment, not sure what to do, then he curled his fingers, cradling Bucky's forehead. "Maybe it does work," Steve said softly, thumb brushing through Bucky's hair.

Bucky didn't reply, but his eyes closed completely and he sighed quietly.

"Bucky. You need to go home."

His eyes opened to narrow slits and he half-glared at Steve.

"You're sick and that means you need to be home in bed. If this feels good," he brushed his fingertips against Bucky's forehead, "you probably have a fever. So you need to go."

"I came to see you," he said stubbornly.

"And you've seen me, and I'm telling you to go."

"I don't want to."

His hand was on Bucky's forehead, Bucky was leaning into him, and at that he had to fight the urge to reach out and pull Bucky closer. Instead he stepped back. "I don't want you to, either, but I don't want you to get sicker more."

Bucky looked like he was about to argue, but Steve lifted his chin, giving him a very firm look, and he sighed. "Yeah, all right."

"Good. And don't come back until you're better. If you show up while you're still sick, you won't see me." From the look Bucky gave him, he was pretty sure they both knew it was a lie. 

Bucky hauled himself to his feet and Steve walked him to the cemetery's border, staying right by his side. He didn't think Bucky was suddenly going to go crashing to the ground, but just in case.

They stopped at the edge.

Bucky stepped over and turned to look at Steve. "I wish..." he started, then stopped, giving a helpless shrug.

"Me too."

With one last, quick look, Bucky went. Steve watched him until he disappeared from view. Bucky would be fine. He was sick, but he'd get better. He had a long drive home, but he would be safe.

It had to be his imagination that it was already lonely with Bucky gone.

Annoyed at himself, Steve shifted. Sometimes things were simpler as the dog.

He paced the border, stopping to growl at the squirrels, who scampered back into the tree. The crows cawed in raucous amusement at seeing their foes routed and Steve watched them for a while.

They'd been here—not these crows, but their ancestors—for as long as Steve had. He'd seen them born and he'd seen them die, generation after generation, and he'd always felt they were somehow on his side.

The day passed and night fell. As the moon rose, Steve lifted his head and howled, singing his song, hearing it answered, the song of the black dogs threading together, each black dog a star in a constellation of connections. And always, the one high above, so far away they could barely sense her, so far away they could never reach her, no matter how loudly they sang.

Steve imagined _he_ was lonely. How lonely was she? At least he could hear the others.

And he had Bucky. Bucky who'd dragged himself out here even when he was sick. Bucky who'd tried to refuse to go home. Bucky, who'd leaned into Steve's touch like it was something good. Steve knew it was only because he'd had a fever and Steve was as cool as the grave, but still. He hadn't pulled away.

Maybe it was time to stop reminding himself that Bucky might not come back. Maybe it was okay to just believe he would. 

 

*   *   *

 

Two days later, Steve crouched invisible and watched two women walk through the cemetery. They were part of a larger group walking through the forest, but the others weren't willing to come in among the headstones.

"Too spooky," they said, and, "Probably get eaten by a zombie," and more bluntly, "You're nuts."

The two women, apparently made of sterner stuff, we're traipsing boldly among the headstones and vines and underbrush, taking photos and calling out to their companions.

Steve flattened his ears when they found the box.

"Hey, there's something back here!"

"Probably cursed," one of the group called from the trees.

"I don't think so. It looks brand new."

"There can be brand new cursed objects." 

"Sure, but brand new cursed objects filled with books?"

She'd opened it and was pawing through Steve's books. There was nothing he could do to stop her. He couldn't reveal himself, not for this. These people weren't Bucky, with his smell of peace and his honest curiosity. Showing himself, even to a few of them, would be madness.

"Just leave it."

"No, I'm taking it. Someone probably left it behind when they were camping or something."

"Camping. In a cemetery."

"I've heard of weirder things. We can turn it in to the Sheriff."

"Fine, whatever. I'm not helping you carry it. Can we go?"

They left, and they took the box. The box with the books Bucky had given him.

Steve shifted and sat on a headstone and stared after them.

 

*   *   *

 

Even after a week, Bucky couldn't shake the tiredness, but he was technically better. He sounded like he'd swallowed half a dozen bullfrogs and they'd set up a choir in his throat, but he could breathe again and that counted for a lot.

He guessed he didn't look fantastic, given Steve didn't appear when he crossed into the cemetery. He waited, turned, even covered his eyes and counted to ten. No lean black dog with golden eyes, no sharp, pale man with eyes as blue as the dog's were gold.

"Steve!" he called, wincing at how his voice croaked. "I know I sound bad, but I'm not still sick. Give you my word."

"I'm not convinced."

He whirled around. Steve was standing behind him with his arms folded, doubt plastered across his face.

"Cross my heart." Bucky made a vague gesture across his chest.

Steve cracked a smile. "You sound ridiculous."

"I know. But hey, I brought you some new books." He held up the bag he was carrying. "Does that mean I can stay?"

Steve flickered, growing more transparent. "You'll have to take them back. I don't have anywhere to put them."

Bucky frowned in confusion. "What do you mean?"

"There were some people, they saw the box and took it." Steve sounded sad and apologetic all at once. "I don't think they meant any harm, they said they were taking it to the Sheriff, but I couldn’t stop them."

Instant anger sparked in Bucky's chest, because people should leave well enough alone. "I'll get you another one."

"No. I can't stop it from happening again. Anything you bring me, someone can find it, and if they find it, they're gonna take it."

"We'll hide it better next time. And I bet I can find a camouflaged one, that'll work better than the bright orange."

There was an expression on Steve's face he couldn't decipher, wasn't sure what it meant, but people didn't get to take Steve's things. Steve deserved to have things, things to make his days better, and Bucky would be damned if he'd let anything stop him from making sure Steve had them, since there was no way to get him out of here.

"Maybe it would be better to get some smaller containers, they'd be easier to hide." He nodded decisively. "And since we know you don't mess up electronics, I think it's time to figure out a way to get you music."

"Bucky." Steve shook his head. "Bucky, no. I can't ask you to do any of that. Not when I've got no way to stop it all from getting taken. It's not fair to you."

"Do you want it?"

"That doesn't matter."

Anger sparked at the base of his spine, anger and something else, something indescribable but just as strong. "It _does_ matter. It's the only thing that matters. You're trapped in this cemetery and you deserve to have things to make that better. And I'm going to give them to you. I don't care if that means they might end up getting taken. You deserve them."

His voice broke on the last words, cracking and spiralling into breathless nothing, and he cursed the damn cold, but he stared at Steve fiercely, because he meant it. Steve deserved to have things.

They stood in silence, Steve growing brighter, more solid, and his eyes were a perfect, pure blue. "I'm a bit afraid to argue with you."

"Good," Bucky grumped and the corner of Steve's mouth curled in a smile.


	9. Chapter 9

Bucky was deep in contemplation of exactly what pattern of camouflage—he'd had no idea there were so many—would be best for the vegetation in the cemetery when his phone rang.

He let it ring and let it ring and then finally snatched it up just before it would have gone to voicemail.

"James speaking."

"Am I interrupting something?"

He broke out in a grin, because if Natasha was calling it meant she and Clint were back from wherever Shield had sent them. "Nothing worth mentioning. Welcome back."

"Thanks."

"No lecture about checking who's calling before I answer?"

"Not this time," she said, and he could hear her smile. "I like to keep you on your toes."

"You've always got my best interests at heart."

"I try."

"Did everything go okay?" It was a roundabout way of saying: are you hurt? Is Clint hurt? Did anything terrible happen? Being their friend meant there was a huge part of their life he was never going to know details about. He was okay with that—the little he did know was enough to give him nightmares—but he _did_ need to know they were okay, especially when they'd been gone so long.

"Everything went satisfactory and yes, both of us are fine, since I know that's what you were going to ask next," she said, exasperated fondness in her voice.

"You know me too well."

"Apparently not." He tone had morphed into pure mischief. He braced himself. "So, Bucky."

"Yes…?"

"What's this I hear about you hitting on poor defenceless Shield agents?"

He actually pulled the phone away from his ear and stared at it before putting it back to his ear. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Really? So you _didn't_ ask Agent Wilson on a date?"

"What? No!"

She laughed at him.

"Oh, very funny, Natasha. Tell me Sam doesn't think I was asking him out." Not that it would be bad, precisely; Sam was both gorgeous and, based on Bucky's limited experience, funny and kind, all undeniably attractive qualities, but he'd imagine dating a Shield agent would be its own kind of hell.

"He doesn't, no, but he was extremely smug about the fact that you've never offered to take me and Clint out for pizza and beer."

"And now I understand why you're messing with me," he said. "If I promise to buy you pizza and beer, will that make you happy?" He paused. "And I want you to know I feel like a kindergarten teacher right now."

"It'll be a start," she said with a little sniff that dissolved into a quiet laugh. "But how are you, Bucky?"

"I'm…" He paused, not sure how to answer. He was good, he was happy, he was worried, he was so many things all rolled up into one. His entire world had been turned upside down and shaken and he knew an impossible thing was real. Steve had somehow become so much a part of his life he couldn't imagine it without him. "I'm good. Busy. But overall, I'm good." The addition of Steve to his life couldn't be called anything else.

It must have come through in his voice, because she didn't question it. "Glad to hear it."

"Glad you're back safe."

"We're going to be heading out again."

"Soon?"

"You know I can't tell you that."

"I know. Is that you subtly hinting that I need to pony up with the pizza and beer sooner rather than later?"

"Got it in one."

"What are you doing tonight?"

 

*   *   *

 

They arranged to meet at a quiet, hole in the wall place, promising the best pizza in town, but since Bucky knew at least five other places made the same claim, he didn't give it much weight. 

He arrived ten minutes early and wasn't surprised to find Clint and Natasha already there, having staked out a booth in the back corner that gave them a good view of not only the entrance, but the entire place.  He slid into the far corner, careful not to block their lines of sight, and Clint grinned at him.

"You remembered!"

"One lecture's enough for a lifetime."

"It wasn't a lecture, it was just an explanation."

"It was a lecture," Natasha said. "Anything that lasts more than ten minutes is a lecture."

"It was valuable information," Clint protested.

"Hey, I never said it wasn't interesting," Bucky said, laughing at Clint's dejected expression, "but it was still a lecture."

"Oh, well, as long as it was interesting." Mollified Clint sat back. "How have you been, Bucky?"

"I've been good, mostly. Got sick for a bit but I'm over it." There wasn't a lot he could share about his life lately. He could just imagine their reaction if he told them about Steve. If he said, I've been spending all my free time and some of my work time with a ghost. A ghost who turns into a black dog. He was sure they'd both be nice about it, but he was also sure they'd be urging him to seek professional help just as hard as they could. "But yeah, things have been pretty good."

"Glad to hear it." Clint made a face. "Not the sick part. Being sick's the worst."

"Nah, it's fine."

"Bucky probably doesn’t act like he's dying when he gets the sniffles," Natasha said.

"I am dying when I get the sniffles," Clint replied. "I can feel my soul leaving my body. Through my nose."

"I'm sorry I brought it up," Bucky said, trying not to laugh at the absolutely disgusted expression Natasha was giving Clint.

Thankfully their waiter arrived, possibly preserving Clint's life, and they ordered. A few minutes, and non-sniffle related talk later, their drinks arrived.

Clint had disappeared to the bathroom and Bucky was talking to Natasha about a movie they both wanted to see, when Clint came back and threw himself into his seat.

"They've put in a dartboard!" he said excitedly, looking back and forth between Bucky and Natasha.

Natasha just stared at him. Bucky outright laughed. "Not a chance. I'm not playing darts against you. Not even if you wore a blindfold."

Clint's face fell, turning into something that could only be called puppy dog eyes, but Bucky stood firm. He'd seen Clint shoot. He had no idea why Clint used a bow, but Clint had let Bucky come and watch him when Bucky had been working for Shield, and he knew why Shield let him use it. Clint with a bow in his hands was both beautiful and terrifying. Besides, he was one hundred percent sure he was faking the puppy dog eyes.

"No, not even if you do that."

Clint instantly grinned. "Rats, I was hoping you'd fall for that. You're smarter than half the guys in Shield."

"One of these days you're going to pull your tricks on the wrong person," Natasha told Clint.

"Nah," he batted his eyelashes at her, "not when I've got you watching my back."

She narrowed her eyes at him and he just grinned again.

Bucky looked back and forth between them. "Is this a story I'm allowed to hear?"

"Definitely." Clint rubbed his hands together. "See, there's a certain contingent that think using a bow is, what would you say, Nat? Stupid?"

"They think it's an affectation, that you're showing off, that you're covering up a lack of talent," she ticked them off on her fingers, "that only an idiot would use a bow when you can use a gun—"

Clint made a face at her. "Yeah, thanks, that'll do. And since we don't," he paused, obviously picking his words with care, "usually work where other people can see us, gossip can run wild."

"And he uses it to make money."

"Oh, _thanks_ , way to steal my thunder."

She grinned at him. "No problem."

"So anyway, this latest thing we were on we ended up stuck in a place with a bunch of Shield people, and some guys who consider themselves," he did sarcastic finger quotes, "marksmen. They'd set up a bunch of targets and trick shots—lot of free space where we were—and a bunch of them were," more sarcastic finger quotes, "impossible shots."

Bucky could almost see where this was going, but he didn't say anything, just sipped his drink while he listened.

"And of course Clint was at his most diplomatic when he decided to join them."

"They were being dicks," Clint said.

"They _were_ being dicks," Natasha agreed.

Clint grinned smugly. "And I might have told them that just 'cause something's impossible doesn't mean you can't do it."

"Which they took extremely well," Natasha said, smirking slightly. "It didn't piss them off at all."

"Nope, not at all. And they definitely didn't start putting big money on whether I could make the shot with my, and I quote, piece of crap bow." Clint's eyes narrowed, amusement momentarily falling away, and Bucky wasn't surprised. He knew how protective Clint was of his bow.

Natasha reached across the table and poked Clint. "Tell Bucky what you did."

"Made the shot."

Natasha gave him a _look_. "Tell Bucky what you _actually_ did."

Clint grinned wide enough to split his face. "Made the shot with my eyes closed."

Bucky snorted a laugh and even Natasha couldn't hide her smile.

"They were being dicks," Clint said innocently. "They needed to learn not to be dicks. Most of their pay in my pocket will be a valuable lesson."

Any further lessons were interrupted by the arrival of their pizzas, two steaming pies that smelled good enough Bucky was almost prepared to give credence to the best pies in town claim. Further conversation was put on hold while they dug in and, content as Bucky was to be here with good food and friends, he couldn’t stop the thought that Steve should be here. Steve should have this. Instead he was trapped in the cemetery, alone except for whatever time Bucky could scrape together to give him.

 

*   *   *

 

Bucky lay awake that night, staring at the ceiling. He was a tiny bit drunk, a whole lot sad, and all he was thinking about was Steve. In a way, Steve had been right. It was unfair. The whole thing was unfair. Not unfair to Bucky, Bucky had made his choices, but it was unfair to Steve. Unfair that he was trapped in that cemetery. Unfair that someone like Steve was stuck out there all alone. Unfair that all Bucky could give him were scraps of time when Steve had given him so much more.

Steve had saved him. He'd had no reason to, but he'd done it anyway. Steve had said it himself: _I had a choice._ He could have vanished afterwards, left Bucky alone and wondering if whatever had taken down the deer was going to come for him next, but instead he'd stayed, guarding him, until Sam had arrived. Until he'd known Bucky was safe.

He'd _shown himself_ to Bucky. He'd shared himself with Bucky. Bucky didn't know how or why Steve was a black dog, not beyond _something happened_ , but he knew whatever had happened it wasn't because Steve had done something bad.

Steve wasn't wired that way.

Not Steve who'd saved him, not Steve who'd never once asked _are you coming back_ , not Steve who greeted him with a joyful smile and watched him leave with sad eyes, but still chased him home when he was sick. Not Steve, who'd let him lean against his cool hand because it had felt so good, who'd been so gentle with him, his fingers brushing through his hair.

And okay, Steve's hand had been cool because Steve was dead. He was dead. Bucky couldn't get around that. He was a ghost and a black dog and everything Bucky had ever believed said those things didn't exist, but Steve was real. He was maybe the realest thing Bucky had ever met and that made it even worse.

Clint's Shield agents, who were assholes of the highest order, were walking around not dead and not trapped, and Steve, who was clever and smart and curious and brave was dead and trapped and it _was not fair_.

Bucky didn't care that it wasn't always easy to make time for Steve, that the drive was long and sometimes the days were longer. Steve was worth _not easy_ , but it wasn't enough. It was doling out scraps to a starving man.

 _Just cause something's impossible doesn't mean you can't do it_.

Clint had been talking about his skill next to other people's, but maybe it was true. Someone had put Steve there. Or no, they'd put the first black dog there before Steve had taken her place. But someone had done it. There had to be a way to undo it. There had to be a way to get him free. All he had to do was figure it out. If the world wasn't the simple black and white place he'd thought it was, if it held the impossible—because however much he'd settled Steve into the reality of his life, Steve was still impossible—then he'd find a way to make the impossible work for them. 

Just because something was impossible didn't mean he couldn't do it.

_Thank you, Clint._

The next day he cleared his schedule, pushing some deadlines and turning down some jobs completely, claiming a family emergency—and he'd have to tap into his savings, but he didn't care—and started work.

He soon discovered the problem with trying to figure out how to do something impossible was that he was trying to find out how to do something _impossible_.

Black dogs might be myths, but far too many people accepted _magic_ was real, and most of them were more into wishful thinking and happy dreams than anything _practical_. He wasted a lot of time on their websites and blogs, but he used them to refine his searches, using different search engines and triangulating his terms. Eventually they led him to specialised forums. Half a dozen throwaway email addresses later, because he wasn't stupid, he had memberships.

Some of these people, he concluded as he read through the posts, were scary.

Forum post led to forum post and over the next few days he got better at deciphering their specific lingo and started to circle in on what he was looking for. Eventually he had links to websites that were carefully hidden from any search engines.

One was owned by a self-styled archivist of magic. Bucky _still_ wanted to call bullshit. Apparently he could accept the impossibility of Steve but _magic_ was a step too far. He tried to shove that down because he wanted to set Steve free and that left no room for _this is bullshit_.

Links led to links led to links, and he finally ended up on a site that claimed there was no such thing as _magic_. There was only power. _Magic_ was just a fancily named sop to the consciences of people who wanted to feel better about imposing their will on the world.

Unsurprisingly, most of what Bucky found on the site was horrible, but it had scans of old books, pages browned and wrinkled and stained with substances Bucky didn't want to think about.

It was in those pages that he found what purported to be a spell to enslave a grim. It wasn't fancy, it was terrible, the spell itself in a language he couldn’t understand, but if he was reading the annotations right, part of enslaving the grim was unbinding it from the cemetery.

It was strange to find hope in blood-soaked pages, but then there was no part of this that wasn't strange. Maybe he should give up _strange_ as a measure of his life.

In the end, Bucky cobbled together bits and pieces of what he'd found into something he hoped would work—if any of it would work, because most of him was still muttering _magic was bullshit_.


	10. Chapter 10

When Bucky went to Steve, he didn't have books or music.

What he had was a shovel and a long pry bar. The _spell_ had called for candles, ones made from terrible things, so he _had_ candles, but his were hand-made from beeswax and honey by a local beekeeper. A lot of what he'd read said intention mattered, so he hoped something as honest as those would help. He had a resealable sample bag from a scientific supplier, latex gloves, and a lighter. Since he had no desire to set the forest on fire, the candles were set in clear glass cylinders, heavy on the bottom and picked up cheap from a junk shop.

He left everything tucked in the bushes and made his way up to the cemetery to talk to Steve. It had been eight days since he'd been here. He hadn't wanted to stay away for so long, but it had taken time put everything together.

"Bucky."

Steve came to meet him, blue eyes bright, smile tinged with warmth. He moved through the tangled growth with ease, picking and choosing what he allowed to affect him, walking through vines, though slender trees, skirting around the headstones.

Bucky wondered if it was from respect or force of habit, then shook his head to clear out the random thoughts as he made his way further into the cemetery.

"I'm sorry I was gone for so long," Bucky said, settling on the headstone he'd come to think of as his.

"It's okay," Steve said, sitting across from him, still smiling, warm and open. "I’m just glad to see you."

"Same here." Bucky managed a smile and clasped his hands together on his lap. He was nervous. He couldn’t remember the last time he'd been this nervous.

It obviously showed, because Steve sat straighter, smile fading as he looked past Bucky, eyes scanning the forest. "What's going on?"

"I've been working on something. That's why I've been gone for so long. I found this," he made a face, "…spell, I guess you'd call it, to enslave a grim—"

He didn't get any further.

Steve's eyes flashed gold, the only warning he had before he was facing the black dog. Still Steve, but Steve with sharp white teeth and bright gold eyes dripping with anger. Steve, who was lunging at him.

Bucky stumbled to his feet, one hand outstretched as he backed away. Steve's head was low, subsonic growl rolling down Bucky's spine, as, step by step, he drove Bucky out of the cemetery. The cawing of crows filled the air, twisting around the sound of Steve's growl.

Steve's claws dug into the dirt at the border and he changed, crouched low. "They tried to do that to the first black dog. She was my friend and they tried to rip her away, to enslave her. I gave up my eternity to save her and became the black dog in her place." Gold was bleeding through the blue of Steve's eyes. "You want to do that to me?"

Bucky stared at Steve in horror. He felt sick. "Steve. No." He dropped to his knees at the border's edge. "That's not what I meant. I think we can use part of that spell to get you out." He took a deep breath. "I found out about it," he stretched his hand over the border, palm up, fingers curled, knowing Steve could shift and tear his hand right off before he could pull it back, but he wasn't afraid, "but not to use it on you. I would never do that to you. I was trying to figure out how to get you out of here. You said it yourself, you're stuck here, a protector with no one to protect." With a deep breath, he half-whispered, "I don't want to enslave you, Steve, I'm trying to set you free."

Steve sat back on his heels and stared at him. Stared at his outstretched hand. Gold swirled through the blue of his eyes and slowly faded. After a long moment he said, soft and filled with wonder, "You're serious."

Bucky nodded.

"It won't work. I can't leave. If you did that, if you," gold flared in his eyes, "enslaved me, yeah. But otherwise?"

Licking his lips, he said, "I don't know what I'm doing. Hell, Steve, I don't know if I even believe in it, but I pulled a bunch of different things together that I think might work." He paused, then added quietly, "We can try?"

Another long moment stretched, Steve's eyes so blindingly blue they almost hurt to look at, then Steve caught his hand and stood, drawing him to his feet and back into the cemetery, drawing him close, so close Bucky could feel the calm coolness of him.

His fingers were tight around Bucky's as he said, "We can try."

 

*   *   *

 

As Bucky explained, Steve had to fight not to snarl. But Bucky was so earnest, had been so shocked, so horrified, Steve believed him.

He believed Bucky. He believed in Bucky. He _trusted_ Bucky. Bucky didn't smell of wrongness. He never had.

Now that the impossible had been voiced, he _wanted_ to go with Bucky. He wanted to leave the cemetery. The cemetery that wasn't home, that, more and more since he'd met Bucky, felt like a trap. One he'd walked into with his head held high, one he didn't regret walking into, one he'd walk into again for the same reasons, but still… It was a trap.

And it was okay for Steve to leave. He'd done his borrowed duty. There was no one here to protect and there never would be. Bucky stumbling across the cemetery in need of him had been the sheerest of coincidences. The chances of it happening again…

If Bucky could make this work, if they could make this work, if they could unbind him from the cemetery, Steve would leave with a glad and grateful heart.

What would happen after that, he didn't know, but he was willing to take the risk.

"I left everything down on the trail, so I could talk to you first. I'll go get it."

Steve watched him go and had to fight back the urge to tell him to stay.

Fluttering shadows covered him, the crows filling the branch above, but they were silent now. Watching, as he sank down to sit on his grave, leaning back on the worn headstone. The one Bucky usually sat on. Maybe Steve should have said something when Bucky had been worried about disrespecting the dead, but he hadn't thought it mattered. Bucky would never know. 

But now they were going to have to dig it up. His coffin would have been cheap, and after all this time it surely would have broken down. It should be easy enough to get to his bones.

He wasn't sure how he should feel about the idea of Bucky digging down for what was left of his body. Not much of anything, he guessed. He hadn't seen it put in the ground, and while he'd been alive it'd never done him any favours.

For the first time, he didn't notice Bucky cross the border, didn't realise he was there until his quiet voice said, "Steve?"

He had a shovel in one hand, a long prybar in the other, was wearing his backpack.

"This is it," Steve said, gesturing.

Bucky did a double take. "All this time I've been sitting on—?"

He looked so horrified, eyes wide, shovel clutched to his chest, that Steve chuckled. "Yeah, but it's okay. I told you it was okay."

"Yeah, but you didn't tell me it was _you_ ," he muttered, as he put his pack on the ground and rested the prybar across it. He kept hold of the shovel.

Steve got up and stood next to him. The sun was starting to break out from behind the clouds, casting golden light across Bucky's face, the cool breeze winding through his hair, making it flutter.

Bucky pushed an errant strand behind his ear. "Do you want to watch to make sure I don't…" He trailed off, looking uncertain.

Maybe he didn't know how to feel either. "Don't?" Steve asked.

"I was going to say do anything disrespectful, but I guess there's not much more disrespectful than digging up someone's grave."

"I don't know," Steve said. "You're doing it to help me. You're doing it to set me free. Sounds pretty respectful to me."

Bucky's expression firmed and he nodded. "Right."

The shovel thunked solidly down and Bucky started cutting through the vines and turf. He was marking out the shape of a grave. It wasn't easy, but the shovel was sharp. When he'd cleared down to soil, he started to dig.

After a few minutes, Steve shifted and joined in. He was strong, and fast, digging coming naturally in this shape, and soon he was doing the lion's share of the work, while Bucky cleared the loose soil behind him.

It took a few hours to reach the coffin. Steve's claws scraped across wood and he stopped. Bucky joined him, standing on a ledge they'd dug out, because neither of them wanted to find out what would happen if he stood on the coffin, and they carefully cleared off the rest of the soil.

The clunk of his shovel hitting rotten wood was soft, but it rang through the cemetery like a cannon.

"Steve? Do you want to keep an eye out? Make sure no one's coming? This is pretty damn illegal."

He shifted, standing on top of the coffin, and met Bucky's eyes. Bucky was trying to protect him. It filled him with a strange mix of emotions: something soft he wasn't sure what to do with, a touch of exasperation—because that was _his_ job, it was what he was, what he did—and a clear, bright thread of affection.

"No, I'm not leaving you to do this by yourself." Bucky's eyes narrowed, he opened his mouth, and Steve held up a hand. "I'm dead. I know I'm dead. I've been dead for a long time. I'm not going to learn anything I don't already know. It's okay, Bucky," he added in a softer voice.

Bucky nodded. "Then I'll get what we need."

He scrambled out of the hole, heading for his backpack. He returned with the prybar, flimsy gloves, and an opaque bag. He shoved the last two in his pocket, slithered down into the hole onto his ledge, and looked at Steve.

For permission, Steve realised, and nodded.

Bucky dug into the coffin lid with the pry bar, levering soft chunks out of the way, and then they were looking at his body. Or what was left of it. It was just a skeleton, a few bits of skin and some tattered clothing clinging here and there.

Bucky rubbed a hand over his mouth, leaving smears of dirt on his cheek, staring down into the coffin. He was completely silent.

Steve watched him, concerned. "Bucky?"

There was no response.

He moved closer and made himself solid enough to wrap a hand around Bucky's leg. "Bucky."

Bucky jumped and looked down at Steve, eyes a little wide. "Sorry. I didn't expect this to be so hard."

Steve tightened his grip on Bucky's leg. "I don't want it to be hard for you, but I'm glad it's not easy."

"Why?"

"Because it was easy for the people who came to enslave the first black dog. They pulled her bones out of the earth and treated them like garbage. It was easy for them. Everything was easy for them."

Bucky looked stricken.

"I know you're not doing that," he soothed. "I trust you. But it's still reassuring that this isn't easy."

He could see Bucky taking that in, turning it over, and the tense muscle under his hand relaxed. Bucky nodded, nodded again and briefly rested his fingers on Steve's head before he turned his attention back to the coffin.

"What do I take?" he asked quietly. "I need you to decide."

Steve studied the skeleton. The skull was obscured by the broken coffin—and he was grateful, for Bucky's sake, that soft as the wood was it had held its shape—the arms folded over the rib cage, the hands lying on top of each other and he was struck by sudden, giddy inspiration.

"A finger should work."

Bucky nodded, took the gloves out of his pocket, and pulled then on with a snapping sound. He crouched awkwardly and leaned down, then hesitated, glancing up at Steve.

Steve made an encouraging gesture.

Bucky touched one bony hand and grasped the index finger.

"Not that one."

"Steve?"

"The middle one."

Bucky stared. Steve slowly grinned. Bucky gave a bark of laughter and gently detached the top joint of the middle finger, pulling the bag out of his pocket and dropping it in.

"I can't believe you," Bucky said.

"Really?" Steve asked.

"Actually, scratch that. I'm not even surprised."

Steve laughed and gave Bucky a boost as he climbed out of the hole.

When they were both out, standing on either side of Steve's grave, Bucky bent down to grab a handful of dirt, which he placed in the bag and then sealed it.

He was cradling the bag in his hands like it held something precious instead of dirt and bone. After a beat, he asked, "Do you want to try?"

"We may as well." Steve didn't have a heart to beat wildly out of rhythm. Didn't have lungs to catch and seize and stop his breath, didn't have a pulse to race and make him light headed. Good thing, too, or he wasn't sure he'd have been able to follow Bucky to the cemetery's border.

Carefully holding the bag in one hand, like he wasn't willing to put it down, Bucky fished three pale yellow candles in clear glass holders out of his backpack and set them up in a triangle outside the border of the cemetery. With a determined breath, he pulled a lighter out of his pocket and lit them.

The fire flared high and Steve stared at them, half-mesmerised, remembering the last time candles had burned on the cemetery's border.

"What I found said to bleed in the dirt and bones, but I don't want to do that." Bucky's voice was quiet. "Not that I'd begrudge you a bit of blood, but it feels wrong."

"No. No blood." Steve walked to the very edge, toes against the invisible line he couldn’t cross, feeling the barrier pulse in his awareness.

He glanced back. The crows were watching from their branch, silent and still. The cemetery was bright, dust and dirt swirling in the air, caught in the beams of sunlight.

He turned back to Bucky, Bucky who was so close, less than a foot away, but who may as well have been on the moon for all Steve could reach him.

That was going to change. They were going to change that. This would happen.  

"I guess we just concentrate really hard on what we want?" Bucky said.

"I guess so."

Bucky wrapped the bag, the bag that held Steve's finger bone, that held the dirt from his grave, tight in his hands and pressed it against his heart as he stared into the flames, intense concentration on his face. His back was bowed and trembling, the line of his neck an arc, every muscle taut.

Steve felt a faint pull. He closed his eyes and followed.

Or tried to.

The cemetery border was still an impassable wall.

He opened his eyes to catch naked anguish on Bucky's face, quickly hidden as he saw Steve watching.

It sparked a burning fire in Steve and he backed away from the border. 

"I'm sorry," Bucky started, but Steve shook his head.

"No. We forgot. We forgot about the other part of me." He smiled, showing his teeth, and shifted, golden eyes, sharp white teeth: the black dog. He tipped his head back and huffed at Bucky, drawing him closer.

He crouched in front of Steve. "You think we need something from the first dog."

Steve nodded.

Bucky licked his lips. "Is there even anything left?"

Catching Bucky's hand gently in his jaws, wrinkling his lips at the feel of the glove, he tugged. Bucky followed, and when Steve let go, he rested his hand on Steve's head.

The spot where she was buried was in the very oldest part of the cemetery. Steve had reburied her skull, but the soil was still indented. The spot was otherwise unmarked, no memorial for the little hound who'd so loyally done her duty protecting the spirits of this cemetery's dead.

"Here?" Bucky asked, but it felt perfunctory. He barely waited for Steve's nod before he fetched the shovel, tucked the bag in his pocket, and began cutting through vines and turf and started digging, Steve joining in once he had the soil exposed.

They both knew there'd be no coffin here to warn them when they'd reached bones, and they were slower, more careful as they dug deeper. Sweat trickled down Bucky's face, plastered his shirt to his back, his hair to his head. Steve could tell he was exhausted, but he didn't falter.

When they saw the first hint of bone, Bucky set the shovel aside, lay down on his stomach, and used his hands to carefully push the soil aside. He stared into the hole for long moments before asking, "What should I take?"

Steve shifted, kneeling next to Bucky, planting a hand next to his shoulder so he could lean over him and see into the hole. "A tooth," he finally said. The air around them felt calm, quiet and sad, and Bucky's movements were slow and careful as he reached for the skull and gently lifted it out.

The brown stain was ugly and dull against the yellowed bone. Bucky touched it, tentative, then pulled his hand away. "What happened?"

"When they came to take her, he smashed her skull loose with a shovel and smeared it with his blood." The memory was pain, and anger, and it leaked into his voice as he stared unseeing at the dirt.

He could feel Bucky's gaze, but all Bucky said was a quiet, "I get why you were happy it wasn't easy for me." At that Steve looked up. Bucky was cradling the skull like it was fragile, like it was important. "And I'm even happier we didn't use blood."

Steve didn't speak, just leaned on Bucky's shoulder, staring at the skull.

Bucky gently dislodged a long sharp canine and drew it out of the skull, then just as gently set the skull on the ground.

It was with a sense of ceremony that he placed the tooth in the bag and resealed it. He met Steve's eyes and didn't speak, neither of them made a sound as they stood and made their way to the cemetery's edge where the candles still burned, the flames barely flickering, protected from the breeze by the glass holders.

Bucky stepped over the border and stripped off his gloves, shoving them in his pocket.

With the bag in one hand, he offered the other to Steve.

Steve clasped it tightly. Bucky wrapped his fingers around Steve's hand and held on tight, drawing him forward. Eyes open, head held high, gaze locked with Bucky's, Steve followed. He hit the barrier.

He closed his eyes.

Bucky's hand was shaking, his arm was like an iron bar, and Steve believed in that moment that Bucky would never let go. He'd stand here, trying to pull Steve free of the power that bound him to this place, until the end of the world.

With a snarl of determination, Steve lunged forward, driving himself against the barrier.

He could do this.

He would do this.

He was no longer needed here. There was nothing for him, nothing to hold him, he had done his time, he had taken the mantle, taken the binding to save the little hound, and he would never regret it. It had been the only choice, but now that time was done.

It was over.

He would be _free_.

Bucky pulled and he lunged, daring whatever power held him to stop him, and something cracked.

Shattered.

An explosion of wings rang through the cemetery as he stumbled forward.

Fell to his knees.

He was outside. Outside the cemetery. The barrier was gone.

He didn't know whether to cheer or weep or curl into a ball under the weight of the world staring down at him.

"Steve," Bucky half-whispered, voice rich with awe, with joy, fingers twined with Steve's. "You're free."

 

*   *   *

 

Steve stayed far away from the border of the cemetery while Bucky refilled Steve's grave. He stayed far away from it while Bucky refilled the grave of the dog. Neither of them wanted to risk it suddenly snatching him back.

He didn't need to go back in to see that the crows were gone.

He watched Bucky carefully pat the soil flat and lean the shovel against a tree, darting off into the forest before Steve could call after him, ask what he was doing.

He returned in a few minutes with a handful of bloom-encrusted branches to lay over the hound's grave.

"It felt right," he murmured, avoiding Steve's eyes.

Almost lost for words, Steve whispered, "Thank you," and he looked up with a tentative smile.

They were both exhausted, Steve almost entirely transparent, and Bucky was flagging harder with every passing moment, but still he'd found the energy to fetch flowers for the dog's unmarked grave.

Steve didn't think he'd been harbouring any secret doubts about Bucky, but if he had been, the sheer _kindness_ of that would have banished them.

"Bucky?"

"Yeah, Steve?"

"Take me home?"


	11. Chapter 11

"This is my place." Bucky opened the door and led Steve inside. He didn't know if anyone else could see Steve or if his neighbours—if any were paying attention—would think he was talking to himself. Steve looked so tired, he didn't want to ask.

"It's not much but make yourself at home. Uh, I don't have a guest room, but the couch is comfy."

Steve stopped in the middle of the living room looking around. "This isn't much?"

Bucky locked the door behind them and squinted at Steve. "No?"

With a snort of laughter, Steve went to explore the kitchen. "I used to live in a boarding house, in one crappy room with gaps in the floorboards you could shove pennies through—if I'd had any pennies to spare—and leaks around the windows and a tiny washroom the whole floor had to share. This is like a mansion."

With an exhausted laugh, Bucky collapsed on the couch. "In that case, welcome to my mansion and still make yourself at home." He closed his eyes. "We can figure stuff out in the morning."

Now that he was sitting on a comfortable surface, now that he could close his eyes, he could feel how much he hurt, every muscle complaining loudly about what he'd put it through today. All he wanted to do was sleep.

He must have drifted off, because next thing he knew, there was the lightest brush on his arm, a cool touch, and he opened his eyes to Steve standing over him.

"Shit, sorry." He started to sit up, but a hand on his shoulder held him in place.

"Here's what I think should happen now."

Bucky let himself fall back against the couch.

"You need a bath, you need to eat, and then you need to sleep."

"What about you?"

"I don't need any of those."

Bucky smiled. "No, I know. Actually, do you sleep?"

"I can. I don't, really, it's more like resting."

"Then you need to do that."

"After you go to bed."

Bucky eyed him. "Mother hen, too? How many animals are you?"

Steve prodded him gently. "Come on, up. The longer you sit here, the harder it's gonna be."

He was right. With a groan, Bucky hauled himself up and went to shower. He brought the bag with him, set it on the counter so it wouldn't be out of reach, scooped it up when he was done and carried it into the bedroom. 

When he was dressed, he dug through his junk drawer. He knew there was something in here that would work. He found it at the very back, a faux-leather pouch on a cord, and he pulled out the kitschy tourist-trap figurine—a gift from a former client in lieu of paying him on time—and tucked the bag inside, looping the cord around his neck.

It sat securely under his t-shirt, the multiple layers obscuring the shape of the bag's contents.

"You're wearing it," Steve said when Bucky came out.

Bucky stopped. "Is that okay? And how did you know?"

"I can see it." He gestured at Bucky's chest. "And I can," he cocked his head, "feel it. I felt it get closer, knew you must have it on you, and put two and two together."

"But is that okay?" he repeated.

"It's fine, Bucky. I'd rather have you carrying it than leave it lying around."

Relieved, he grabbed leftover casserole out of the fridge, shoved it in the microwave, and started it heating, Steve watching the whole process in fascination. "It works by vibrating the food," Bucky said. "I think. It's been a long time since I read anything about microwaves. We can look it up tomorrow. Or I can show you how to use the internet, so you can look up whatever you want."

He knew Steve must have endless questions, but all he said was, "Sounds good."

Bucky grabbed his food when the microwave dinged, wolfed it down, dumped the dishes in the sink and stopped. Because he had no idea what to do for Steve. "What do you want to do?"

"Don't worry about me, Bucky. Go get some sleep."

"Do you need a blanket, or?"

With a wry smile, Steve shifted, and Bucky was looking at the black dog. It gave him a moment's pause, because it was one thing to see him in the cemetery, and completely different to see him here, standing in his living room, golden eyes gleaming.

Steve's ears pricked forward, and he gently nudged Bucky.

Bucky shook himself out of it. This was what it had all been for. So Steve would be standing here in his living room. "All right, I'm going. But get me if you need anything, okay?"

Steve nudged him again.

"I'm serious."

Steve sighed, but finally nodded.

"Good," he said. "G'night Steve." He crouched down, even though his back and legs and shoulders screamed at him. "I'm so glad we did it. I'm so glad you're here."

Ducking his head, Steve briefly touched his nose to Bucky's hand then stepped back, gazing at him expectantly.

"I'm going, I'm going."

He was asleep moments after his head hit the pillow. For the first time in months his dreams weren't filled with golden eyes, but he surfaced from sleep just enough to hear the soft shush of paws on carpet, briefly aware of a watchful presence beside his bed. He sighed and snuggled deeper into his blankets as it turned away, patrolling through the darkness of the apartment.

 

*   *   *

 

Bucky wasn't a massive fan of mornings. Waking up generally demanded coffee and a little time for the world to settle around him. He had a nagging feeling in the back of his head that something was different this morning, and not just the dull ache in every muscle, but he couldn’t quite get to it. Never mind. Coffee and he was sure everything would come clear.

"Steve," he breathed at the sight of the black dog curled on his couch, his hand coming up to cover the pouch hanging around his neck. Steve. They'd freed him from the cemetery. They'd done it. He was here. He was asleep.

Or maybe not. One sharp ear was pointing right at him, even if no other part of Steve had moved.

"Coffee." He hit the kitchen and put a pot on to drip, leaning on the counter to stare at the back of the couch.

A black head, sharp ears pointed at the ceiling, gold eyes gleaming, rose up to watch him.

"Coffee," he said again, by way of explanation.

Steve rested his chin on the couch's back.

Bucky put his elbows on the counter.

They waited in silence as the coffee pot burbled and muttered and spluttered, the aroma filling the apartment. Steve's nose twitched.

Steve was here. Did this mean the apartment was haunted? Steve wasn't a ghost, but he sort of was, but he wasn't. He was like nothing else in the world.

And he was _here._ He never had to be alone again, trapped in the cemetery, bound to stay and protect the dead who'd long since gone on to wherever the dead went.

He couldn’t stop staring at Steve, couldn’t take his eyes off him. Not even when he shifted into his human self and said, "Something wrong?"

Bucky shook his head and turned away to pour himself a mug, added milk, and sat down at the kitchen table. "Just happy you're out of that cemetery," he said after taking a sip.

"Is that what that goofy expression was for?"

He just smiled down into his mug.

Time passed, Bucky drinking his coffee, Steve watching him, and then Steve asked, "So what happens now?"

Bucky looked up from his coffee. He took a deep breath before he answered, mostly because he didn't really have an answer. All he could be was honest. "I don't know, Steve. I never thought that far ahead." He set his coffee on the table and leaned forward on his elbows. "What do you want?"

"I don't want to go back to the cemetery."

"That's never going to happen," Bucky said seriously. "Never. And whatever you decide you want, I'll do everything I can to make it happen."

"You do remember I'm dead, right?" Steve asked, lifting his eyebrows, obviously amused.

Bucky sat back, picked up his coffee again. If he'd ever been tempted to forget, yesterday had cured him of it. Steve was dead. He knew it intimately, had dug into his grave, had handled his bones. Weirdly, he felt _comfortable_ with it in a way he hadn't before. He was wearing part of Steve's—and he ducked his head to hide a completely inappropriate grin—middle finger in a pouch around his neck and it didn't feel wrong or strange.

Steve was dead. He would _never_ forget it. But he was still Steve. "Does that change anything?"

Steve stared at him.

"Don't look at me like that. You're a dog, too, sort of, but that doesn't change anything, either. You think and talk and exist, and you're you, you're Steve, you’re a person." He drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I don't know what any of this is going to mean, I don't know what's going to happen, but you get to want things. And if you do, I'll do my best to help you get them."

It seemed to throw Steve, if his sudden transparency was anything to go by, but it only lasted a moment, and then he was completely opaque, colourful and brilliant, his blue eyes bright. "I'll let you know."

"Good." He drained his mug. "And I hate to do this to you, but I have to get some work done today. I've been letting everything slide the last week or so and I've got deadlines to meet. Will you be okay on your own?"

"I think I can manage."

"Okay, well there's the books," he waved at the shelves, "and I can show you how to work the TV?"

"The books will do me just fine."

"If you're sure."

"I'm sure, Bucky." There was something soft in Steve's voice, in his small smile. "Go do what you need to do."

 

*   *   *

 

With a last apologetic look, Bucky poured himself another coffee and disappeared down the hall to the second tiny room. Steve knew it was tiny, just like he knew it had a desk and shelves and a filing cabinet and Bucky's laptop, since he'd learned every inch of the apartment last night, prowling around, checking for danger—habit, instinct, and inclination combined.

Instead of reading, Steve curled up on the couch in dog shape, ears tilted towards the hall, listening as Bucky muttered to himself as he worked.

Steve knew it hadn't sunk in yet that he was free. Not that he was free, not that he was here, in Bucky's home, with Bucky.

He'd saved Bucky almost by reflex, never looking for, never hoping for a reward. He'd saved Bucky because it had been _right_ , never dreaming he'd even see him again, and here he was, free, with Bucky asking: what do you want?

 _What did he want._ He wasn't sure he wanted anything, not like Bucky meant. He was dead. He'd ignored the road that led to whatever came next—oblivion or some great beyond, he didn't know; maybe he'd never know—in favour of staying with the dog, and then he'd become the dog, more or less.

He stayed where he was, curled on the couch, nose tucked under the tip of his tail, trying to work out what he wanted, but all he could come up with was: stay with Bucky.

When Bucky came out to get lunch, he sat next to Steve on the couch. His grey-blue eyes were paler than Steve was used to, but he wondered if that was because he normally saw him half cast in shadows and sunlight, not inside, under bright artificial lights.

"You're in charge of who sees you, right? No one can see you if you don't want them to?"

Steve lifted his head, pricked his ears forward, and nodded.

"Then there's no reason you have to stay in the apartment. You can, I don't know, explore the neighbourhood? Take a look around, whatever you want." He paused, grinned a little. "Just don't get lost."

Steve flattened his ears and made judgemental eyes at Bucky, who laughed.

"I didn't think you would, but I don't know. I've never been friends with a spectral canine before. And I sure as hell never helped break one out of cemetery jail. I don't for sure know what you can do."

Steve had to shift. As expressive as his— _really, Bucky? Spectral canine?_ —body was, some things required words. "Is that what we're calling it? Breaking me out of cemetery jail?"

"If the shoe fits…"

"I'm already beginning to regret going along with it," Steve deadpanned.

Bucky just laughed at him again.

Steve rolled his eyes and called the dog, then vanished from Bucky's sight, enjoying the startled little noise it pulled out of Bucky.

Invisible to all, Steve trotted down the stairs and out onto the street. He'd gotten a taste last night, when Bucky had driven them here, but it was different in the light of day.

Everything was different, everything was strange—loud, bright, fast, there were so many cars in so many colours—and Steve thought he should be _reacting_ to it. But as interesting as it was, as _fascinating_ as it was, it was hard to get worked up over. He wondered if it that came from being dead or from being the dog.

He followed his nose to a small park. There weren't many people, most of them parents with children, who ran around and fell over and acted like children had always acted. He watched for a while, then turned away and continued his journey. People were still people. That was good and bad, he guessed. Some things didn't change, no matter how many years went past.

The road split and he picked the left fork. The streets grew more crowded, turned from houses into stores, and he peered in the windows. The prices were astronomical, almost impossible to comprehend, but even when he'd been alive inflation had been a thing—and he'd been dead a long time. It did make him wonder what people got _paid_ now.

Steve crossed the road, ignoring the traffic as it zoomed through him, but it was getting harder to move. The air was thicker, and as he pushed forward it became like water, became like mud, became like hardening concrete. He struggled against it, straining, head down, fighting it until he couldn't.

He was stuck. He couldn’t go forward. It was like he'd hit a wall. He took an experimental step backwards, and it was smooth as sliding on an oil slick.

He shifted and tried again with the same result. Fists clenched, he stood, head bowed, then finally looked around until he spotted a street sign. Shifting back to the dog, he started the return journey, his steps leading him unerringly to Bucky's door.

 

*   *   *

 

When he told Bucky, Bucky looked worried, but he used the opportunity to introduce Steve to both Google maps and the mouse. Being able to zoom into any street in the _world_ distracted Steve for a couple of hours—which he didn't think had been Bucky's intention, Steve had just lost himself and come back to Bucky watching him fondly while he sipped his coffee.

What they eventually learned, plotting Steve's journey, was that he'd made it about six miles before he'd been stopped.

"Like someone had yanked my leash," Steve said, and Bucky grimaced, though whether at the joke or the situation, Steve couldn't be sure.

"I've got no idea what's going on, Steve, but I don't like it."

"Neither do I, on both counts. But I still don't know how we pulled off getting me out of the cemetery."

Bucky tilted his head, acknowledging the point, then rubbed a hand over his face and up into his hair. "I guess we'll have to figure it out."

It took them multiple trips out of the apartment, Steve on his own, Bucky on his own, the two of them together, Bucky with and without the pouch, but they worked out what was happening, even if they didn't know why.

Steve was tethered to a range of about three miles from the pouch. If Bucky was touching it, the range doubled.

The two of them sat on the floor of the living room, leaning against the couch, the pouch in Bucky's hands.

"So now we know," Steve said.

"Yeah." Bucky looked devastated. "I didn't mean for this to happen."

"I know you didn't. Neither of us knew what we were doing."

"I didn't get you free, I just got you stuck to something else." He closed his hands around the pouch.

"Hey," Steve said sharply, turning to face him. "No. It wasn't you, it was _us_ , it was something we did _together_. Don't go trying to take all the credit for yourself." He gave Bucky his sternest, most over-the-top look until Bucky gave in and cracked a smile. "Better. This is just something we'll have to work with."

Bucky glanced at him from under his eyelashes, and Steve could still see doubt.

"If I ask you to take me somewhere, will you take me?"

"Of course."

"If I tell you I _don't_ want to go somewhere, will you take me there, anyway?"

"No. Of course not."

Steve shrugged. "Then we can deal with it. Now put it back on, will you?"

Bucky gazed at him, then he smiled, wide and warm. "Whatever you say, Steve." He drew the cord over his neck and settled the pouch under his shirt.

Steve knew he was probably imagining it, but he instantly felt warmer with it back where it belonged.


	12. Chapter 12

Bucky knew he shouldn't feel guilty about Steve being _bound_ —he didn't know what other word to use—to the bone and dirt and tooth in the pouch. Steve was right: neither of them had known what they were doing.

After mulling it over, he dealt with it by dealing with it.

The first thing he did was buy a much stronger, more secure pouch, one with a wire running through the cord of braided leather that would loop around his neck. Along with the pouch, the woman who sold it to him also delivered some deeply disapproving looks. He guessed he didn't really fit in at the festival—he'd gone specifically to find something like the pouch, and maybe he should've worn something besides jeans, boots, a Henley and his leather jacket, given everyone else was in some version of renaissance-medieval-hippy—but he could put up with some dirty looks if it meant the bone and tooth and dirt were safer.

The other thing he did was change the way he worked. He sat down with Steve and they figured out what Steve wanted to see, where he wanted to go, and where Bucky could work that was in range. Bucky ended up doing a lot of work in coffee shops near museums and art galleries and parks, a lot of time working in libraries. It took some adjusting, especially learning to tune out the distraction of other people and sounds, but he got used to it.

It was worth it to get used to. Sometimes Steve would come back bristling with energy and excitement, and it was hard to keep looking at his laptop and not react, but the last thing he needed was to get a questionable reputation, since he'd be coming back to some of these places.

Sometimes, Steve would come back solemn, sad, and shift into the black dog to curl up under the table with his head on Bucky's feet. That usually happened after he'd been in the history section at the library, or after he'd been to a museum. He almost never wanted to talk about it, but being the dog—it seemed to be easier for him to process things. When he shifted back, he was more settled.

When he emerged from his work one day to discover how much time had passed without Steve returning, he wasn't worried, precisely. Nothing could hurt Steve. But he was so used to Steve being there, it was unsettling that he wasn't.

He waited for another half an hour, then packed up, dropping a tip in the jar at the counter, and went to find Steve.

Something he had no idea how to do.

 _Okay, it's ridiculous, it's impossible, but then what hasn't been since I met Steve?_ He closed his eyes, head bowed so hopefully no one would notice, pressed his hand over the pouch where it rested against his sternum, and thought _Steve_ as hard as he could.

Was that…something? Or was it his imagination? It felt like a distant buzzing, a hum, and he opened his eyes and followed. _It's probably someone's dying air conditioner_ , he thought with an inward eye roll. _I'm following a bad motor._

Except he turned the corner and found himself face to face with a cemetery. And in the distance, standing on a small slope silhouetted against the sky, was Steve.

"I'll be damned," he whispered, following the fence to the open gate and walking through, his feet crunching on the gravel path. This cemetery was pristine, no jutting headstones, just flat plaques set in immaculate emerald grass, a world away from where he'd met Steve.

He followed the path as it curved up the small slope.

And stopped.

There _was_ a black dog standing in the middle of the path, shimmering golden eyes locked on Bucky, but it wasn't Steve.

It wasn't lean enough to be Steve, there was no ruff of fur around its head, its ears were too small and it just…wasn't Steve. Its head lowered, and a growl filled the air around them, warning and serious.

It took a step forward, but Steve galloped over the slope from behind it, past it, and pressed against Bucky's legs, body turned sideways. Standing between him and the other black dog. He didn't growl, just stood, staring at it.

"Steve?" Bucky said softly. "What's going on?"

Steve's ears flickered, and he glanced up at Bucky, eyes molten gold, then turned them back on the other dog.

Slowly, its body language changed. Its head came up, the growl faded, its ears curved sideways, and it lifted a front paw. Bucky thought it seemed confused, eyes flicking between him and Steve.

Steve pushed harder against him, Bucky gave way a step, and then Steve herded him out of the cemetery. Once they were outside, he shifted.

"What _was_ that?" Bucky asked under his breath.

"I'll explain when we get home. For now, we need to go."

When they got home, when they were inside the apartment, Bucky said, "That was another black dog!"

"It was."

"How come I could see it. Him?"

"Her. Because she wanted you to. And because she thought you were a danger."

"Why?"

Steve moved closer and reached out to the touch the lump that was the pouch under Bucky's shirt.

Bucky stared at Steve's fingers. "Right." He didn't know how to feel. "I guess I should stay out of cemeteries."

"It wasn't you." Steve's hand closed around his shoulder. "We're, this, what we have, what we did. It's, I don't know if it should have been possible. To her, it would have looked like you'd stolen me, bound me. She thought something was wrong. She thought you were a danger to me."

"So she tried to protect you."

"Yeah," Steve said with a tiny, wry smile. "It's what we do."

Before he could think too hard about it—because if he did, he was afraid he wouldn't be able to—he pulled the pouch off over his head and held it out, fingers curled protectively. "What if I give it to you?"

Steve stared at Bucky's hand like he was holding out a viper. "What are you talking about?"

"If I give it to you, if you take it, that wouldn't happen again. And," he paused, because he didn't want to say the words, but he had to; they were right, "you could go anywhere. You wouldn't have to stay with me."

"Do you want me to leave?"

"No, but you shouldn't have to stay here. There's a whole world out there."

Tiny flecks of gold were bleeding into the blue of Steve's eyes. "It _sounds_ like you want me to go."

"No. I mean yes, if that's what you want." He paced a circuit around the living room. "What I don't want is for her to be right. For this to be just another trap. Just another version of the cemetery, borders you can't cross, a place you can't leave."

Steve's face went completely blank.

"All I want is for you to be free to do what you want to do. Whatever that is."

"Even if it's staying here?"

"If it's what you really want, of course."

"Do you want me to stay?"

 _Yes._ "What I want doesn't matter."

"Why not?"

"Because it's your life."

Steve's slow smile appeared and Bucky waved a hand at him.

"You know what I mean."

"Not sure I do, Bucky." Steve crossed the room and stood in front of him, standing very close. "I know what I want. But I'd sure like to know what you want."

Bucky opened his mouth and Steve held up a hand.

"And don't say it doesn't matter. It does." Gold flashed in his eyes and Bucky was helpless to resist as Steve murmured, "Tell me."

"I want you to stay," he said quietly.

Steve beamed. "Then I'll stay."

"Steve, you can't—"

"Because that's what I want, too," he said firmly, reaching out to close Bucky's fingers around the pouch.

"Oh."

"Oh," Steve repeated, gently mocking, and Bucky smiled sheepishly at him. "Plus there's something you didn't think of."

"What's that?"

"If I was carrying this around, everyone would be able to see it. It's not like I can make it invisible."

"You mean…" He trailed off.

"Yeah, it would just be the pouch floating through the air. It might draw a few looks."

Bucky gave him an exasperated look. "You couldn't have led with that?"

"No." Steve gently squeezed Bucky's hand where it was curled around the pouch. "I needed to know what you wanted."

Bucky nodded once, then hung the pouch around his neck, tucking it back under his shirt. It settled over his sternum, a comforting weight. Intellectually he knew it should be disturbing—the bag held bone and grave dirt and a tooth—but it wasn't. It was more than the sum of its parts: it was Steve's presence, Steve's freedom, Steve's trust, and it felt almost warm where it touched his skin.


	13. Chapter 13

Steve was the next thing to silent as he walked through the midnight dark of Bucky's equally silent apartment. He paced through the living room, through the kitchen, through Bucky's office. He walked through the front door and paced down the hallway.

All was well. He returned, with only one place left to check. He paused outside the door to Bucky's bedroom, head cocked, ears pricked, listening to the beat of Bucky's heart, the quiet rush of his breathing. They were smooth and steady, the sounds of safety and comfort.

He still needed to check. Silently, he walked through the door.

He never stayed long; he wasn't here to spy on Bucky, but he needed to know all was truly well. He paced around his room, finding nothing out of place, turned to leave, and froze.

Bucky's heartbeat had changed.

Steve looked at the bed. Bucky was curled on his side, elbow under his head, eyes half-open and soft with sleep, watching him.   

"You don't have to do that," he murmured

Steve blinked slowly at him, the golden glow of his eyes dimming and brightening.

"You do it every night, don't you?"

Bucky didn't seem angry, which Steve conceded he'd have a right to be, since Steve was standing in his bedroom without invitation. He also didn't seem to need an answer.

"Because you don't have to. It's not your job. You're not a dog."

It sparked something. He shifted, crouching on the carpet. "I am, though," he said quietly. "I'm a black dog. It's part of me, just as much as the rest of me."

He could see Bucky, but he knew without the glow of his eyes, Bucky wouldn't be able to see him. He moved closer, resuming his crouch next to the bed.

"I know, but—"

"No. It's what I am. And this is what we do. It's what we are. We _protect._ "

"You don't have to. You told me you don't have to. You said it was a choice."

Steve smiled. Trust Bucky to remember. "Then this is my choice. It's what I need to do."

Bucky sat up, leaning closer so he could see Steve, so close their faces were almost touching. "As long as you know you don't have to."

Even with Bucky half-asleep, it was said so earnestly, like Steve's understanding was the most important thing in the world, warmth spread through Steve. He patted Bucky's hand. "I know."

"Okay, good." He lay back down, but there was curiosity on his face.

Steve tilted his head. "What?"

"Were you like this before you died?" Bucky blinked a little. "Or, no, before you…" He trailed off, frowning.

"Before I became the dog?"

Bucky nodded.

The room was dark and quiet, a cocoon of warmth surrounding them, and Steve leaned his elbows on the edge of the bed. It had been a long time since Steve had thought about his life. It wasn't something that mattered anymore, so distant it felt more like a story he'd been told than something he'd lived. This, right here, right now, this was what mattered.

He must have been quiet for too long, because Bucky's hand settled on his arm. "Sorry," he said softly. "I shouldn't have asked."

"No, you can ask. I was just thinking. And yeah, I was a little bit like that before I died."

Bucky was half-smiling, and his eyes, even in the silvery half-light Steve saw him in, were bright.

"You're not surprised, are you?" Steve asked.

"Not really, no."

Steve laughed. "Anything else you want to know?"

"You don't mind me asking?"

"I'll tell you if I don't want to answer something, but you can ask me whatever you want."

"Can I ask…" He could see Bucky chewing it over and he waited patiently. "When did you die?"

Was that all? "1938. Do you want the whole story?"

Slowly, Bucky nodded.

"I was sick, I'd always been sickly, the list of things wrong with me would take all night, and eventually my body just…gave out."

Bucky looked stricken and the hand on Steve's arm tightened.

"Bucky," Steve said gently. "I don't remember dying. I remember being in the hospice and then I was in the cemetery. There was nothing in between."

"It didn't hurt?"

Steve figured it had probably hurt a lot, but if he didn't remember it, that was basically the same as it not happening. "It didn't hurt."

Bucky loosened his grip, then let go completely, tucking his hand under his chin.  "One more?"

"As many as you want."

"You said you gave up your eternity to save her."

It was like a punch to the solar plexus, hitting him in a way the questions about his death hadn't. He pressed his forehead against the bed. All unexpected, Bucky's fingers stroked through his hair, gentle, reassuring.

"Are you okay?"

"I think so."

"You don't have to answer."

Part of him didn't want to. The rest of him… "Part of it I'm not sure I should tell you. Part of it I'm not sure you should know."

Bucky's fingers stilled, then started moving again, slow and even. He wanted to shiver, like the first time Bucky had said his name. "Whatever you think, Steve. I trust you."

It settled him. He lifted his head and Bucky's hand fell away. "I was a ghost. Not sure what other word to use, but I always knew there was another step. If I wanted to take it."

Bucky's eyes locked on his. But he didn't ask. He didn't say anything.

"I didn't. I was happy where I was, with the dog." He smiled a little. "She wasn't mine, I didn't even give her a name. It would have felt wrong to name something like her, but I." He paused. "I loved her. And when they came to try and take her I got between them and the…the power, the words, whatever it was, and it flowed over onto me. I could see what it was doing to her and it was—" He stopped, remembering her agony as the tendrils stabbed _through_ her. "I can't."

Bucky held out his hand and Steve took it, slipping his fingers through Bucky's.

"I could see the dog she used to be, a little brown and white hound, that's what she was before she died and became the black dog. I could see her spirit. And I could see the path waiting for me. I was desperate enough that I tried to shove them together. It worked."

"You gave up your eternity," Bucky murmured.

"Yeah. And I don't regret it. Not for a minute."

Silence fell, then Bucky stirred. "You _were_ always like this."

It set something free in Steve, and he laughed, "Yeah, I guess I was."

 

*   *   *

 

When Bucky woke up the next morning, it was with the sense of something big having happened. He knew last night wasn't a dream, but it felt dreamlike, washed through with golden light like his room had been when he'd woken and seen Steve.

He made his way out into the living room and Steve was already at the coffee maker. He wasn't quite sure when Steve had taken it over. He'd taught himself to use it, and the coffee he made was so much better—strong and rich, without being bitter—that he'd made only a half-hearted protest that Steve had stared down.

And now Steve was in charge of the morning coffee.

He poured Bucky a mug when it was done brewing, added a splash of milk, and carried it over to him. "Here."

Bucky accepted it with a grateful smile and sank onto the couch. "You're the best."

Steve scoffed at him. "Bet you say that to all the ghost dogs living in your house."

"Spectral canines," Bucky muttered around his coffee.

"I'm not calling myself that."

"But it's so," he made a twirly gesture with one hand, "fancy."

"And what about me exactly screams fancy?"

Bucky studied him intently over the rim of the mug, eyes sweeping him up and down. Steve was right, he wasn't fancy, but his sharpness was…it was _elegant_ , his eyes were a blue so bright it was like staring into the sky, and the way his hair flopped over his forehead, no matter how often he pushed it back, was adorable.

Bucky smiled, small and warm. "Your hair," he said, taking a long drink of coffee.

"My hair." Steve cast his eyes upwards, like he was trying to see it.

"Mmmm."

"Good thing I know your brain doesn't work before you've finished your coffee."

Bucky didn't say anything, just smiled again. 

They sat in silence, Steve unconsciously running his fingers through his hair, while Bucky drank his coffee. He set his mug on the floor, then sighed and stretched, his brain finally awake. And with his brain awake, he remembered that there was one more thing he wanted to know.

"Can I ask one more question?"

Steve turned to face him, resting his cheek on the back of the couch. "I told you last night, you can ask anything. I just might not answer."

"I wasn't sure if..."

"If?"

"If maybe those were only the rules for last night."

"Rules for always, Bucky."

Bucky mirrored him, leaning back, cheek against the couch. "It goes both ways, you know."

"I'll remember. Now ask your question."

 "A couple of times, you've said we. It's what we do. It's what we are. How do you know what other black dogs do? Did yours—"

Steve gave him a sharp look.

Bucky wasn't deterred, but his voice was very gentle as he said, "You loved her. I know you didn't name her, I know you thought it would be wrong, but from what you said she was your dog and you were her person." He kept his voice soft. "I don't think it's wrong to think of her as yours."

He could see Steve mulling it over. "Maybe."

He wasn't going to push. "Did she tell you before she," he had no idea what to call it, and opted for, "left?"

"No. No, nothing like that."

Steve was weighing him again, measuring him, his gaze heavy against Bucky's skin, flecks of gold bubbling through the blue. Bucky didn't mind, was content with whatever Steve decided.

"We sing to each other."

"You sing to each other?"

"Yeah." Steve's voice was distant, his gaze unfocussed as he stared at the ceiling, and Bucky had a feeling he wasn't seeing old plaster and light fixtures. "We sing to each other."

"And they told you your job?" he asked hesitantly.

"No," Steve said with a quiet laugh, "that part I just knew. When I became the black dog, I got an entire new world of instincts and senses, and what I was supposed to do was part of it." He turned back to Bucky. "But we sing to each other. We're all trapped in our cemeteries, in our graveyards. Some of us still have dead to keep us company and some of us are alone, but we can all sense each other. The closer we are the stronger it is, but our songs bring us together.  No matter how far away we are from each other, we're linked by a chain of voices. It means none of us are completely alone."

"That's beautiful," Bucky murmured.

"It was a bit different for me, because I'm not quite right. Neither fish nor fowl nor good red meat. I could still hear them, still feel them, but the songs weren't quite part of me."

Bucky gently touched his arm.

"Hey, no. They were still there for me, I could still hear the songs, I could still sing with them. There's one of us who's so far away our songs can't reach her. We can feel her, barely, but she can't hear us, and if she's singing, we can't hear her. It means she's totally alone."

"You can feel her, but you can't reach her?"

"No. It's like," there was a pause, then Steve continued, thoughtful and sad, "imagine you see a faraway light one night, but no matter how loud you call, the person holding it can't hear you. She's holding the light. Up there," Steve pointed straight up, "too far away to hear us. We know she's there, and maybe she knows we're here, but we can't reach each other. She must be incredibly lonely."

There was a long silence, the minutes ticking past, and then Bucky said, in a voice of horrified wonder, "Are you talking about _Laika_?"

Steve gave him a blank look. "Who's Laika?"

"No, of course, she would have been after your time." He cleared his throat. "Laika was a dog. In the 50s the Russians sent her into space. Into orbit, so she was circling the planet. She died up there, she was always supposed to die. She's famous for being the first dog in space and the first living creature to orbit the planet."

He trailed off as Steve met his eyes, gold flashing through the blue. "They sent her up there to die, all alone in the dark. They meant her to die."

"Yes," Bucky said quietly. "But Steve, she's not still up there. The spacecraft fell out of orbit a couple of years later. Her body's gone."

"That doesn't matter." Steve's eyes were almost pure gold, only tiny flecks of blue left. "If you'd taken all of my little hound's bones and all of my bones and carried them out of the cemetery, do you think I would have come with them?"

Bucky remembered how hard it had been to drag Steve out of the cemetery, like fighting the tides, fighting gravity, fighting an implacable force determined not to let him go. It wouldn’t have cared if Bucky had sent those bones to the other side of the world. It had only been the two of them together, however or whatever they'd done, and their determined stubborn refusal to give in that had set Steve free. And he was still bound to dirt and bone and tooth. "No."

Carefully, tentatively, he brushed the back of Steve's hand with his fingers. Steve grabbed hold and held on tight, and blue started to bleed back through the gold. 

After a long moment, he let out a deep sigh. "Do people send their dead to space?"

"I don't know. Let me…" He stretched out and managed to grab his phone off the coffee table without letting go of Steve's hand. It didn't take long to find his answer and a shiver ran down his spine. "Yeah," he said quietly. "They do. 1931, that was the first story about space burial. 1997, a company started doing it."

"She's a black dog." It was truth, the way Steve said it, inarguable and absolute. "They made her, even if they didn't know what they were doing, and they trapped her in the darkness, too far away for our songs to reach."

Bucky didn't know what to say. There were no words of comfort he could offer. All he could do was sit with Steve. They didn't talk, and Bucky didn't let go of his hand. Steve's expression was closed off, like he was lost in thought, but he didn't pull his hand away.

Eventually, with a curl of his fingers and a gentle squeeze, Steve said, "I'm gonna head out for a bit."

Bucky nodded, watching in fascination (because it was always fascinating) as Steve became the dog, sharp ears and black fur and golden eyes, and then vanished.

After a minute, he poured himself another cup of coffee, took it with him to the shower, and got ready to work.

But he couldn't get it out of his head, the idea of a dog like Steve—like he'd thought Steve was—drifting alone in space.


	14. Chapter 14

The next few days brought gorgeous weather, cloudless days, and Bucky's complete inability to stop thinking about Laika. It wasn't constant, he wasn't going through his days weighed down by the idea of her, but at odd moments she'd drift across his mind. 

He decided they could both use a distraction, although truth be told it was probably only him that needed it. For Steve, nothing had changed beyond knowing how she'd ended up so far away.

"Do you have any plans for tomorrow?" Bucky asked while he ate dinner. Steve was sitting with him, playing with a sketching app on Bucky's phone—Bucky had bought him a stylus, since the touchscreen didn't register his fingers—and he looked up at Bucky with one eyebrow cocked.

"Do I have any plans? Gee, I don't know, Buck. Me and the local barbershop quartet were going to get together for rehearsals, but if you need me to reschedule I can probably manage it."

Bucky balled up his paper towel and threw it at him—which was completely pointless, and he was treated to the sight of it flying through Steve to bounce off the back of the chair and land on the floor.

He made a face and Steve laughed at him. "I think you're safe to figure I don't have any plans."

"I don't know," Bucky shrugged, "you could have been planning on going out somewhere in the neighbourhood, or you could have wanted me to take you somewhere. I'm not going to assume you _don't_ have something in mind."

Steve put the phone down, planted an elbow on the table, and put his chin on his hand. "What did _you_ have in mind?"

"I was thinking, the weather's supposed to be beautiful tomorrow. We could go for a hike up the Glasshouse. If you were interested?"

"What's the Glasshouse?"

"It's an hour or so outside the city. Opposite direction from where you used to be. Depending on who you ask it's a large hill or a small mountain, but either way it's got good trails and gorgeous views. I thought it would be nice to get out of the city, give you a chance to see somewhere new." Ignoring the way the idea of it made his heart clench, he added, "I can leave it behind," he tapped the pouch, "if you don't want to come."

"No. It sounds like fun. We should go."

 

*   *   *

 

"Why do you do this again?" Steve asked. He wasn't at all winded, because you had to breathe to be winded, walking backwards in front of Bucky, phasing through rocks and trees and brambles.

"Because it's fun," Bucky replied, also not winded, but breathing a little more heavily than normal. These were good paths, well-marked, but they weren't exactly steam-rolled flat, winding up the hill in repeating switchbacks around trees and boulders, roots making them treacherous for someone who wasn't paying attention.

They'd deliberately come out late in the day, Bucky knowing there wouldn't be many people around, and he had a headlamp and flashlight in his backpack for full dark. Their destination wasn't the top, but a large flat spot part way up which had amazing views of the night sky.

Now that they were here, he wasn't thinking too hard about it—he wasn't letting himself think too hard about it—but he knew people didn't put cemeteries on the tops of hills or mountains. Maybe if Steve was closer, his song would reach higher into the sky.

He wasn't thinking too hard about it, because most of him knew it was stupid, but there was a tiny, tiny part of him that hoped.

"What part of it's fun, exactly?" Steve grinned as Bucky ducked under a branch that Steve just walked right through.

Bucky scooped up a handful of leaves and chucked them at Steve, which had no effect since they fluttered right through him, and Steve laughed as he ran ahead. He paused at a turn in the trail as a ray of light struck him, and he blazed like fire, brighter than the sun.

Bucky had to stop and stare, because Steve was _beautiful_. Golden and gleaming, and he could see through him, the shadows of trees silhouetted against his light, but the strangeness was just part of Steve's beauty. It wasn't the first time he'd felt it, but it was the first time the thought had made its way, fully formed, into the forefront of his mind. Steve was beautiful, as sharp now as he'd been that first day, but Bucky knew that sharpness wouldn’t cut him.

He shook his head, driving it all away, and dug in, moving faster to catch up with Steve, leaving the thoughts behind on the trail.

"Not sure I could explain," he said, panting a little after the burst of speed. "There's something about it, about being out here, it reminds me there's more to life than what I see every day and that what I see, it's not important. That the people I deal with, the ones that are assholes, they don't matter, not next to trees and mountains and the sky. Eventually those guys will be gone and all of this will still be here. It's, I don't know, Steve." He shrugged. "I just like it, is all."

Steve smiled his slow smile. "That's nice, Buck."

He shrugged again. "Come on, let's keep going."

"Lead the way."

 

*   *   *

 

It was nearly full dark by the time they reached their destination and Bucky was sweeping his flashlight over the trail. The flattish spot was mostly rock, with a few patches of grass and a smattering of moss and tiny white flowers. The cloudless sky stretched above them to an endless horizon and Bucky dropped his pack and tilted his head back to stare up at the sky.

Steve moved to stand next to him, just visible in fading light as Bucky turned to face him,.

"Why did you bring me here?" It was soft, curious, no hint of accusation.

"I wanted to show you somewhere new. And it's been a long time since I got a chance to get out and go hiking."

Steve's gaze was shrewd. "There's something else, though. Isn't there?"

Bucky took off his backpack and set it to one side, flicked off his flashlight and set it on his pack. The stars were coming out, the moon would be rising soon. Steve was a silver shadow, watching him. "I thought," he hesitated, then gestured at the sky, "you could sing."

Understanding bloomed in Steve's face and he glanced up.

"Even if it doesn't work, and I know it probably won't work, I thought you might want to…hear your friends again?"

There was something in Steve's eyes, something ancient and profound, something that felt like the night sky above them, the stars looking down. He silently pressed one hand against Bucky's cheek.

Bucky sucked in a shaky breath. Steve's fingers trailed down his face, his shoulder, to rest over the pouch under his shirt, then he turned and shifted, the black dog standing in front of him.

Steve lifted his head to the sky and Bucky knew he was singing, he could see Steve's throat working, see his ribs moving, but there was no sound Bucky could hear. 

He couldn’t stop the stab of disappointment.

Steve pushed into him, pressed against him. Like he was inviting Bucky to touch.

"Can I?"

Steve pressed into him harder and he slid his hands into the fur on Steve's side, over his ribs, and he could feel it, he could feel Steve singing, feel it vibrating through him. He tilted his head back, hands in Steve's fur, gazing up at the night sky, at the stars sparking with life, at the brightness of the moon, and imagined he saw the shadow of a dog.

A black dog, just like all the dogs Steve was singing to, except she was completely alone.

His hand tightened in Steve's fur, and he looped his arm over Steve's back. Steve looked at him in concern and Bucky shook his head.

Time got lost, it was meaningless, but eventually Steve stilled, the cool fur beneath his fingers didn't vibrate with sound he couldn't hear, and between one moment and the next he was holding Steve. Steve the man. For one moment, they stayed together, Bucky's arms around Steve, Steve curling into him, then Bucky let go and sat back. "Did it…?"

"No," Steve said, squeezing Bucky's hands. "But it was a wonderful thought."

Bucky nodded, not surprised, because it had been the faintest of faint hopes.

They lay on the hilltop, shoulder to shoulder, watching the stars, but eventually they had to leave.

On the way back, Bucky kept his flashlight on the trail so he didn't trip, but he didn't worry about getting lost. Steve was leading him, his fingers twined with Bucky's, and he knew Steve would always guide him safely home.

 

*   *   *

 

Before Bucky went to sleep, he grabbed his phone and sent an email. He was probably wasting his time, but it never hurt to ask.

_How much would it cost to book time with your company?_

 

*   *   *

 

A reply was waiting when he woke up.

_More than you can afford, unless you've become independently wealthy since you did work for me._

Which was about what he expected. What he didn't expect was the rest.

_But perhaps we can work something out. Come and see me tomorrow at two._


	15. Chapter 15

The phone rang while Bucky was immersed in a sexual harassment policy. Not something that was his favourite thing, but important. He patted his desk until he found it, answered without looking, saying, "Hello, this is James."

There was a short silence, followed by, "This time you do get the lecture."

He grinned. "Hit me."

"How many times do I have to tell you not to answer your phone without checking who it is?"

He laughed, he couldn't help it, because he didn't let himself worry—that way lay madness—but knowing she was home was always a relief. "Probably forever, but I've never been clear on _why_? Are serial killers going to come through the phone?"

He could _hear_ her amusement. "Manners, Bucky. It's manners."

"Oh, is that what it is," he replied. "Hi, Natasha. You guys made it back safe?"

A soft chuckle came through the phone. "Would you believe Clint tripped getting off the plane on the way home and broke his toe?"

Bucky considered what he knew of Clint, and said, "Yes I would."

"And your question is answered."

"Are you going to be around for a while this time?"

"Probably."

"In that case, coffee?"

"If you insist."

"I'm afraid I have to. I have an appointment I can't miss at two, but if you guys have time, I could meet you in an hour?"

"The regular place?"

"Yup."

"See you there."

The line went dead and he grinned and put the phone on the desk.

"Who was that?" Steve asked curiously, leaning in the doorway.

"Natasha, she's a friend of mine." With anyone else, the explanation would have ended there, but this was Steve. "She works for Shield, and that means half the time she's away somewhere, sometimes for a long time, and I usually have no idea when she's getting back."

Steve cocked his head in the way Bucky knew meant he'd said something Steve didn't understand.

He ran back through his words and said, "Shield?"

Steve nodded.

"Right. They're sort of like the FBI, only more so. International, way more secretive."

"Is Shield the Agent in Agent Wilson?" Steve asked after a moment's thought.

"Yeah, exactly. Sam works for them, too."

Steve was smiling his slow smile. "You run in interesting circles."

Bucky laughed. "Not really. A few years ago Shield hired me to do some work for them, but they insisted it all had to be done in-house, so I was working in their headquarters. Which I swear were designed by Escher. I ended up getting lost trying to get back to my office from the bathroom, Natasha was the only person around, so I asked her for directions." He couldn't help a fond smile at the memory. "That's apparently something people do not do."

"Ask for directions?"

"Ask Natasha for directions. She's a little bit terrifying. I think it intrigued her. Or amused her. Or she felt sorry for me. I don't know. She and her partner, Clint, ended up sort of adopting me for the two months I was there—even if it sometimes felt like she was studying me, waiting for me to reveal my secret evil plans—and when it turned out I didn't _have_ any secret plans, she was kind of stuck with me."

"She sounds interesting."

"She's definitely that," Bucky agreed. "I'm meeting her and Clint for coffee in an hour." He tapped the pouch, had to resist the urge to curl his fingers around it as he said, "I can leave this here if you don't want to come?"

"No, don't. I won't eavesdrop, but I wouldn't mind getting a look at your friends."

"I wish I could I introduce you."

"I can just imagine how that would go," Steve said, gazing into the distance. He shook himself, then suggested, "Maybe you could tell them you got a dog?"

"Yeah, I don't think so. They're spies, Steve. They'd notice you don't look like a normal dog."

 

*   *   *

 

The Patisserie—a fancy name for somewhere that had never been able to make up its mind if it was a bakery or a coffee shop, but no one cared because everything it made was delicious—was thankfully not crowded. When it was crowded, things could get ugly, especially if a fresh batch of cinnamon buns had been put out. Elbows had been thrown, and on one memorable occasion a nose had been broken, in pursuit of piping hot buns and melty icing.

He found Natasha at a table near the back with clear lines of sight to the door and slipped into the seat across from her.  "No Clint?"

"Clint's decided his broken toe means his whole foot is out of commission and he's entitled to drown his woes yelling at cartoons."

Bucky stifled a laugh.

"It seems to make him happy."

"As long as he's happy," Bucky said, and went to order his coffee. When he glanced back, Natasha was watching him intently.

"So what's new in your life?" she asked when he came back with his coffee and two cinnamon buns, setting one in front of her. She glanced at it but didn't touch it.

"Not much," he hedged, because lying to her was fraught with peril.

Her eyes narrowed.

"No, not much, not really." He held up his hands. "I swear."

"Is it this appointment you're going to?"

"No, well yes." He frowned. "Sort of. I can't really talk about it." Steve had said he wouldn't eavesdrop, and that meant he wouldn't, but still, he didn't want to risk Steve knowing, not until he found out if it was possible—and it wasn't something he could explain to her, anyway.

Natasha leaned forward and her eyes locked him in place. "Bucky."

"What?" he asked innocently, sipping his coffee.

She sighed. As he watched, it was like her mask slipped away. She suddenly looked tired, weary in a way he'd never seen. "If there's something wrong, if you've gotten yourself into something you don't know how to get out of, you can tell me. I'll help you. Whatever it is, no matter how strange it is, I _will_ help you. All you have to do is ask."

He blinked at her, touched beyond words. He didn't know what she was talking about, didn't know what she was getting at, but he guessed the mission she and Clint had come back from must have been bad. It must have been really bad for her to be talking like this, letting him see her like this.

Without thinking, he reached out to touch her arm, but she jerked it away before he could make contact, mask once more in place. _Shit. Don't touch Natasha. Come on, Bucky._

"Sorry," he said, pulling his hand back. "That means a lot to me. But I don't need help. I promise. Okay?"

Something darted across her face, an emotion he couldn’t quite read, sadness, resignation, he didn't know, there and gone so fast he thought he might have imagined it.

"Okay, Bucky. If you're sure." There was a pause, like she was waiting for him to fill it, and when he didn't say anything, she stood. "I have to go."

"Now?" he asked in confusion.

"I just remembered there's something I need to do."

"Umm, okay. It was good to see you, and I'm glad you guys came back safe. Will you say hi to Clint for me?"

"I will," she said, and was gone.

Bucky sat by himself, picking at his cinnamon bun and sipping his coffee for a few minutes before Steve walked over and sat in Natasha's vacated seat. Bucky knew he'd only be visible to him.

"She didn't stay long."

Bucky shrugged and, making sure to talk quietly into his mug, so no one would see him and think he was talking to himself, said, "Sometimes she has to leave in a hurry. I'm guessing she must have had a bad time while she was away."

Steve studied him, then nodded. Bucky sculled down his coffee, and the two of them left, Natasha's cinnamon bun remaining untouched on the table.

 

*   *   *

 

The offices of Gjallarhorn were tasteful and understated, not something the average person would expect from a company owned by someone with more money that Tony Stark. Not that Bucky was counting himself as other than the 'average person', but he'd been here before. He'd known what to expect.

Of course, he hadn't expected Heimdall (not _Mr_ Heimdall, _never_ Mr Heimdall) to make time in what had to be an insane schedule to meet with him. Bucky had met him exactly five times before this, three times when Bucky had been volunteering with the non-profit Gjallarhorn supported, and twice when Bucky had done work for Gjallarhorn itself—and he didn't flatter himself that his work was so standout they'd just had to hire him.

No, he was certain he'd been hired _because_ he'd done that volunteer work for the non-profit…not that that was why he'd done it, as he'd stumbled all over his tongue trying to explain while Heimdall carefully _didn't_ laugh at him, until Bucky finally gave up and thanked him for the contract.

Steve wasn't with him. When they'd gotten back from his aborted coffee date with Natasha, Bucky had explained that he needed Steve to stay home for this one. Bucky hadn't been able to give a reason beyond _because_ , so now Steve was ticked at him.

Bucky would cope. However this went, he'd be able to give Steve a good reason when he got home.

"Mr Barnes?" The immaculately dressed woman, whose glimmering, pale blue suit stood out against her ebony skin and dark, coiled hair and made Bucky feel like he was only pretending to be a grown up, gestured to him. "Heimdall will see you now."

"Thank you," he said with a smile, and she led him into the office.

It was huge, almost completely circular, jutting out of the building and the outer walls were made almost entirely of glass, offering a wide view of the city and surrounding mountains. The carpet was muted gold, subtle patterns creating a path that led to the desk. Glancing up, because he had to check if it was still there, Bucky saw the double-height ceiling still had its mural of the night sky, pinpoint accurate constellations stretching across it.

Heimdall was sitting behind his desk, watching him, and as Bucky came closer he sat up straighter, alert, almost guarded, like Bucky was a dangerous dog.

Bucky stopped dead, a confused, "Sir?" slipping out, something about Heimdall commanding automatic deference. Then he winced, because he'd had the lecture from him about not being ' _Sir'_ the second time they'd met.

Heimdall relaxed, and now he was studying Bucky curiously. "I don't need to say it, do I?"

Bucky shook his head and Heimdall smiled.

"Good." He pointed at the chairs in front of his desk. "Now, Bucky, why don't you take a seat and we can talk about why you need to send a message to space."

 

*   *   *

 

Steve was grumpy. He was grumpy because Bucky'd been happy to see his friend and she'd left so abruptly, and even though Bucky had said it was something she sometimes needed to do, Steve could tell he'd been a bit down about it. And that made him grumpy. He didn't like seeing Bucky unhappy.

And he was grumpy (not hurt, never hurt, being _hurt_ would be ridiculous, Bucky could have a life that didn't involve him) because Bucky had left him behind without explaining why. It wasn't like Steve wouldn't have stayed away if Bucky had asked him to, but he hadn't even asked.

He'd explained that he was going, and that he needed Steve to stay behind, and then he'd left the pouch behind. It wasn't like he'd just thrown it on the floor; it was nestled safely among the pillows on his bed, but Steve hated when Bucky wasn't wearing it. It felt wrong to not see the little lump under Bucky's shirt that meant the pouch was safely where it belonged, tucked against his sternum.

He was grumpy, and irritable, and curled up on the couch, nose tucked under his tail, when Bucky finally came home. He could tell by the light steps that whatever his appointment had been it had gone well.

"Hey, Steve," he said, not pausing as he came in. He kept walking through the apartment and into his room and Steve _knew_ it wasn't his imagination—he felt the moment the pouch touched Bucky's skin. It was warmth brushing through him, brushing over him, summer breeze ruffling his fur.

He still didn't lift his head as Bucky came back into the living room and knelt on the floor, putting himself at Steve's eye level. Or he would have been, if Steve had looked at him.

"Guess you're pretty ticked at me."

Steve flicked his ears back.

"I don't blame you. I'd be too."

Steve opened one eye a crack. Bucky didn't look sorry. Bucky looked _radiant._ Steve opened his eyes and raised his head.

Bucky carefully touched his fingers to Steve's paw. "Could you change? I need to talk to you. I know you can understand me just as well like this, but it's easier the other way."

Giving Bucky a long look, Steve shifted. Bucky didn't move his hand and for one brief second, his fingers curled around Steve's before he took them away. Steve wanted to reach out and pull them back.

"What's up?"

Bucky stayed where he was on the floor and rested his hands on his knees. "My appointment today. It was with the man who owns a company I've done some work for."

"Okay?"

"The company, it's pretty unique. What they do, it's mostly science, research, but they have a purely commercial division." Bucky leaned forward, his eyes holding Steve's, and they were almost glowing. "Ask me what it does."

"What does it do?" Steve could feel something itching down his spine, a tension he didn't know what to do with, as he looked down at Bucky, kneeling in front of the couch.

"It sends messages to space."

Steve fell into stillness.

"It sends messages to space, Steve, and I have no idea why, but some musician is paying to broadcast a live performance to space in a couple of weeks. I could never afford them, it's for rich people with too much money to burn, but they have to do a test of the equipment, and Heimdall—he's the man who own the company—I don't know why, or what I said to convince him, but he said if I needed to send something into space that badly, I could do it when they run their tests." Like he couldn't help himself, he pressed both hands against Steve's legs. "Steve. Do you get what that means? It means—"

"I get it," he said softly, wonder unrolling inside him, tempered by one single thread of worry. Slender, but he had to know. "You didn't tell him about…?"

"About you? About why? No." It was fierce and his grip on Steve's legs tightened. "No, Steve. Never. I would _never_ tell anyone about you." 

The fire of Bucky's fierceness burned the silken thread to ash, roaring brighter, higher, and Steve briefly closed his eyes. _Why, why would Bucky do this._ "Why?"

"Steve?"

"Why would you," he gestured helplessly, and when he was done, his hand landed on Bucky's, "do this?"

"Why wouldn’t I?" he asked, bewildered. "It's _important_ to you, and she shouldn't be alone."

It stole Steve's voice and all he could do was stare at Bucky in wonder. Almost of their own accord, his fingers threaded themselves through Bucky's, lifting his hand to hold it against his chest. 

He could feel Bucky's pulse racing under his skin and he swiped his thumb across it, saw Bucky's throat work as he swallowed.

"It might not work," he started to say, but Steve pressed his other hand gently against his lips.

"It doesn't matter. Bucky. It doesn't matter. You thought of her. You…" Words were useless. He moved his hand to cradle Bucky's cheek, thumb tracing his cheekbone, then, slow and soft and as inevitable as the tides, kissed him.

Bucky stilled, drew in a shivery breath, then his hand tightened on Steve's and he returned the kiss, leaning into it, reaching to pull Steve closer. With a little noise low in his throat, Steve closed his eyes and his world narrowed to Bucky, to the feel of him, the bump of their noses, the brush of their lips, the little tug as Bucky nibbled at his bottom lip and Steve smiled against his mouth.

He slid his hand down to cradle the back of Bucky's neck and felt his tendons straining, his head tipped back awkwardly; with a thought, he let himself fall through the couch until he was on the floor.

It was easier, being face to face, chest to chest. Bucky was warm against him, his heart beating against Steve's empty chest, his breath soft against Steve's cool skin as he kissed a line down Steve's jaw, behind his ear, against his neck, and Steve tilted his head, sighing softly.

Then Bucky paused. "Are you sitting in the couch?" he murmured against his skin.

"Yeah."

Bucky laughed softly and pulled back enough to see, then he pressed his face into the crook of Steve's neck and kept laughing.

Steve held him hard, running one hand through his hair, feeling each soft strand slide through his fingers. "It's okay?"

"The couch or the kissing?"

Steve had meant the kissing, but he said, "I guess both," because he hadn't thought before he'd phased through the couch. He'd just done it.

"The kissing's better than okay. The couch is strange, but it's part of you." Bucky's eyes glinted. "Literally."

"Very funny." Steve gave him a light, playful shove and he shuffled backwards, grabbing Steve's hand as he stood, pulling him up and forward, and then down to sit with him on the couch.

"Better," he breathed, drawing Steve close.

"Yeah." Steve draped himself over Bucky, pressed his nose into Bucky's collarbone, the pouch digging into his chest and it was warm between them. Bucky wrapped his arms around him and kissed the top of his head, his temple, tipped his head up and pressed a gentle kiss to his mouth. Steve returned it enthusiastically, hands framing Bucky's face, curling into his hair, and in all his long existence he couldn't remember anything better than this.

 

*   *   *

 

That night, when Steve's midnight patrol led him into Bucky's room, Bucky slipped backwards, making space, and flipped the cover back in invitation. After a moment's hesitation, Steve shifted and joined him.

There was an awkward moment, both jostling for position, before Bucky murmured sleepily, "No, I want to hold you." Steve subsided with a quiet grumble, making Bucky smile and kiss him before he curled around him. He tucked Steve close against his chest, arms around him, and buried his face in Steve's hair. Steve caught his hand and twined their fingers together, and Bucky drifted back to sleep with Steve's thumb brushing slow, gentle arcs across his wrist.


	16. Chapter 16

Three AM. The time when death was said to walk, calling people home. A time when the world was soft and quiet, slow to wake and slow to react. A time when things could happen in secret.

Bucky was deeply asleep, Steve curled in his arms—not quite asleep, but resting in that quiet, in-between place, when something drew him up and out. He was on his feet and shifted, standing over Bucky, just as the door to Bucky's room slammed open.

Bucky woke to blinding light and the sound of Steve snarling, blue-white light sparking from the hands and curling around the arms of one of the people looming over his bed.

He knew her. He _knew_ her, just like he knew the man standing behind her, light-tipped arrow nocked, even if it wasn't pointed at him. Alarmed confusion burned through his sleep-muddled brain, gifting him with alertness, but it didn't help him understand what was happening.

"Natasha? Clint?"

They answered with silence.

Steve growled, long and loud. It vibrated through Bucky's chest. The arrow moved, pointing at Steve, and Bucky didn't know what the light was, didn't know if it could hurt Steve, but he wasn't going to take the chance.

He tried to shove Steve behind him, but Steve was iron, steel, solid rock and immovable. "Steve, please," he murmured.

The only response was a low growl that rolled down his spine.

He met Natasha's eyes and they were cold, like she was staring at a stranger.

His heart split in two, falling into his stomach and crawling into his throat, and anger began to rise. "Natasha. What's going on."

"I gave you a chance," she said, flat and distant. "I want you to remember that. I gave you a chance."

"Gave me a chance to do _what_?"

"To tell me the truth. You _stink_ of death magic and that's not power that comes from anything good. Not power that can be used for anything good. I didn't know why, but I do now." She pointed her chin at Steve. "You've enslaved a grim. That's so far over the line from good…" For the tiniest of seconds, she faltered, then it was gone. Her eyes were cold. "Nothing good comes from that. Nothing good can come from that. You shouldn't have done it, because now we have to stop you and deal with the grim."

Steve's growl rose. Bucky was reeling, the implications of what she'd said sending his mind into a chaotic whirl, but the only part that mattered was _deal with the grim._ With a desperate shove, he propelled himself over Steve, placing himself between them, barely registering that Clint wrenched the bow away.

His heart was frantic. _How did he protect Steve from this?_ He squared his shoulders, lifted his chin. " I won't let you hurt him."

Steve's chest pressed against his back, Steve's jaw settled on his shoulder, long white teeth by his ear as he bared them, and he could feel every low rumble vibrating through Steve's body.

"I won't." He met Natasha's eyes, willing her to believe, trusting she'd care. "The only way you'll hurt him is if I'm dead."

Silence stretched, like it didn't know what to do and it didn't want to be there.

"Nat." Clint let the arrow sag.

She didn't move, didn't react, and Clint said her name again, more sharply. " _Nat_."

Still nothing.

"Maybe we got this wrong." That got a response. Only a twitch, but Clint kept going. "Look at them. Really look at them. When did we ever see something like that?" Clint lowered his bow. "I think we need to find out exactly what's going on before we do anything we can't take back."

For the first time, Steve stopped growling. He stared at Clint, the gold of his eyes flaring bright as he locked onto him. Clint didn't react, didn't tense, hands loose on his bow as he said quietly, gaze shifting to Natasha, "Everyone deserves a chance."  

Natasha shot him a brief look, expression too complex for Bucky to read. Then she lowered her hands. The blue-white light began to fade.

"I can explain," Bucky said slowly, curling his hand into Steve's fur. "But I want an explanation in return. Like who you are."

"You know who we are," Natasha said.

"No, I know who I thought you were. But the people I thought I knew, they wouldn't have done this. They wouldn't have come in here looking to hurt Steve." His shock, his fear for Steve, was draining away, anger once more simmering to life in its place. "They wouldn't have goddamn known about Steve or, or _death magic_ in the first place."

"That makes us even," Natasha said, and she almost sounded _sad_ , "because the man we thought you were wouldn't have enslaved a grim."

Steve's snarl rattled the windows, the mirror hanging on the wall _cracked_ , and Bucky threw himself at Steve, wrapping his arms around his barrel, aborting his tooth-bared lunge at Natasha. "Steve!" Steve dragged him forward a step before he let Bucky stop him. "Steve," he said, softer, folding a hand around his muzzle. "Don't."

Steve pressed his nose into Bucky's hand and subsided, but his eyes were incandescent as he glared at Natasha.

"I didn't," Bucky said simply.

"Then how is he here? Why are you wearing a bag of death? Magic doesn't get much darker."

Bucky glanced down to where the pouch of dirt and bone and tooth rested against his chest. It wasn't a bag of death to him. It was what kept them together, it was what kept Steve free.

He looked back up at Natasha and didn't know what to say. Part of him, the last lingering shred of his rational self, that had existed before he ran for his life from a homicidal deer, wanted to tell her she was being ridiculous. There was no such thing as magic. The rest of him… No, he knew that ship had long since sailed. Denying it would be it would be like floating in the middle of the ocean and insisting there was no such thing as water.

There was something, though. "It's not magic. It may not be _nice_ ," he couldn't stop the sarcastic twist he put on the words, "but it's not magic. It's just things."

"Things you used to enslave a grim."

Bucky met Steve's eyes. Like him, Steve was angry, but beyond that, Bucky could see plain old fed up. _Fuck it._ It wasn't like he could make things worse. "You know what? No. We're friends, or I thought we were. You could have just _asked me_ what was going on. But no, you had to sneak into my bedroom in the middle of the night like a pair of goddamn spies."

Clint coughed pointedly, but Bucky waved a hand dismissively.

"I know, that's what you are. But Natasha? Not one damn thing was stopping you from saying at coffee today: 'hey, Bucky, you seem a bit different lately, and also where did you get that necklace?', instead of breaking into my house in the middle of the night and threatening me, threatening _Steve_." He had to stop and take a breath. "But no, you couldn't possibly do that."

Steve huffed his agreement, baring his teeth. Bucky fought the urge to do the same.

"Except people aren't exactly supposed to know about magic," Clint pointed out, paused, and then added, like he just couldn't help himself, "Or name a grim _Steve._ " Natasha gave him a _look_ and he shrugged. "I'm just saying."

"That's his name," Bucky told Clint, and then said to Natasha. "And the cat's out of the goddamned bag now, isn’t it? You want to know what happened? I'll tell you. I would have told you if you'd _asked me_ , if you'd told me you knew about this shit, knew it was real. Steve saved me from that deer. He came out of nowhere and he saved me. He didn't have to, but he did."

Bucky rested a hand between Steve's ears, and Steve settled to lie at Bucky's side, still as a statue guarding an Egyptian tomb.

"I went back, because I needed to know I wasn't going crazy. We made friends. There was nothing for him there, the cemetery's abandoned, the spirits long gone, and he was alone. He didn't think he could leave, but we figured out a way to make it work."

He touched the bag around his neck, had the dubious pleasure of watching Natasha's eyes change, of seeing Clint flinch. 

"And yeah, it means I have this bag, and maybe you think it's gross, but I didn't do anything without Steve's consent, without Steve's _help_ , and if you think he'd be better," his voice was rising and he didn't try and stop it, "stuck walking the boundaries of that cemetery, forgotten by the world, all alone—" He almost snarled the words, but Steve caught his hand in his mouth and squeezed gently, giving Bucky the mental space to take a calming breath. Much more quietly, he said, "You're wrong."

Clint pulled the arrow free and returned it to his quiver, then slung his bow over his shoulder.

"You can talk to him?" Natasha asked.

Steve lifted his head sharply, golden eyes wide.

"Dogs can't talk, not even black dogs," Bucky said, eyes never leaving Steve's, "but we communicate well enough."

She shook her head. Then she sighed and for one brief moment she was the maskless Natasha he'd seen in the coffee shop. "Then you can't talk about consent. Bucky." She hesitated, then went on, "I believe you didn't mean any harm. I believe you, and I believe you had the best of intentions. But you're steeped in death magic. You enslaved a grim. You bound it to you, and that means I have to deal with it."

Steve quivered under his fingers, all the warning he had, and then he shifted, crouching on the bed, blue eyes streaked with gold.

"How about now?" Steve asked, a growl under the words. "Still think I couldn't consent? Bucky broke me free of the cemetery, we did it _together_ , and you aren't laying a finger on either of us."

Clint gaped like a landed fish. Even Natasha's eyes widened.

Bucky pressed his forehead against Steve's back and gave a half-strangled laugh. He was angry, but god help him he was also halfway in love with Steve and enjoying the reaction to his rash— _please don't let it be rash_ —decision.

"How about," he said, voice muffled against Steve's back, "I make coffee and we discuss this like adults."

 

*   *   *

 

He ordered them out of his bedroom and they went without arguing, neither quite able to look away from Steve. He seemed to have broken something in Clint's brain, a match for his broken-toed limp, and Natasha looked like she was recalculating the entire world as Bucky shut the door behind them. Firmly.

He leaned his back against it and stared at Steve, who jumped off the bed, wrapped his hands around Bucky's elbows, gently pulled Bucky away from the door, and put his own back against it.

Putting himself between Bucky and any danger.

Bucky didn't argue. There was a look in Steve's eyes, gold bleeding through the blue, that told him Steve needed it. 

"What now?" Steve asked.

Bucky ran a hand through his hair, shoving it behind his ear, and studied Steve: tense, wary, eyes glimmering gold. Then he stepped closer and pressed his palms against Steve's chest. There was no heart to beat, but he could imagine it racing under his hand.

"We take a minute. They broke in, they threatened you," anger flared into life once more and he breathed deliberately as he let it settle, "they can give us a goddamn minute."

Steve didn't ask for what, but Bucky felt him ease under his hands. He slid them around to Steve's back, settling them under his sharp shoulder blades, and pulled him in, holding him close, holding him tight. Turning his head, he pressed a kiss to his temple, Steve's skin cool against his lips. With a small huff, Steve melted against him, tension flowing away.

Bucky knew he was still alert, still watchful, but the knife edge vigilance faded. They needed this. Bucky needed this. He needed to hold Steve close and feel the cool weight of him and the sharp strength—all by Steve's choice, since he could fade with a thought and leave Bucky holding nothing but air.

They'd threatened to _deal with_ Steve. They could only mean take him. Take him away. The thought was a bolt through his heart, lightning-bright epiphany that maybe half in love was all in love.

Bucky leaned back. "Remember when I asked if _you_ wanted to take this?" He touched the pouch, warm under his fingers.

"Yes," Steve replied, half-wary, but his eyes were once more completely blue.

"I don't think it will come down to it," and he didn't know if he was fooling himself, lying to himself, or just once more holding onto hope, "but if it does, if they try and take you, you take this and run. I know you can't hide it, but you can stay hidden, make sure no one sees it."

He'd never heard Steve growl in this shape. Not a true growl, not the black dog's growl, but here it was, sliding around him, gold bubbling back into Steve's eyes.

"No. You go, you run. No one is taking you, I'm not letting anyone take you—and if the only way to stop that is you taking _yourself_ , that's what's going to happen."

"You don't get to make my decisions for me, and I'm not leaving you."

He took a deep breath, because Steve was right. "I'm asking you. Please." He cupped Steve's face, thumb brushing over the sharp line of Steve's cheekbone, and felt Steve waver under his touch as he grew transparent. "And if you go, if you take it and run, then that means you'll have a chance to come back."

Steve gave him a sharp look, but he stopped fading.

"I'm not saying stay gone forever."

"Wouldn't matter if you were." He relaxed into Bucky's touch. "Like I said, you don't get to make my decisions," he said, smiling wryly, a smile Bucky felt when Steve leaned up and kissed him.  It was cool and soft, and Bucky lost himself in it, in the wonder and the miracle that was Steve, that was the feel of his strong, lean arms around him and all his sharp edges and the moment stretched until Steve leaned back.

"They're waiting," Bucky said.

"We could go out the window."

"No. I mean, yes, we could, but they'd find us, and besides, they broke into our apartment. I want an explanation. I want to know what they were talking about. And," his expression hardened, "I want to know what exactly they were planning on doing with you."

 

*   *   *

 

Natasha and Clint were sitting at the kitchen table drinking coffee. They both looked up when Bucky walked into the living room, Steve a half-step ahead of him.

Without speaking, Bucky poured himself a cup of coffee, then went to lean on the back of the couch, Steve beside him, close enough to touch. "Okay, explain."

"It's not that simple," Natasha said. Somewhere between his bedroom and here, she'd changed. When she'd been looking at him, talking to him, he'd felt like he was Random Bystander—maybe that should be Random Bad Guy—Number Eight she had to deal with. Now, he felt like she'd decided she was talking to Bucky again.

It helped, but it didn't stop him from being angry—and it didn't stop him from being hurt. He'd thought Natasha was his friend. He'd always known it was tenuous; he was an ordinary person living an ordinary life and she, for all he joked about it, actually was a badass Shield agent. But he'd honestly believed they were friends.

"Then make it simple, so even I can understand." It came out flat and he leaned into Steve.

It was Clint who answered. "Magic's real."

Bucky stared at him. "I figured that out."

Clint squinted at him. "Did you? Really? Cause it took me a lot longer than that and I saw all sorts of shit that this one pulled," he pointed at Natasha, "before I really came to grips with it. Magic is actually real. Good magic, bad magic, really actually evil holy shit those people just got turned inside out magic. All of it. It's real."

"And you can do it?"

Clint looked vaguely horrified. "No way. That's not my department. I shoot things. She makes the arrows go all sparkly."

He shifted his gaze to Natasha. Who nodded.

Bucky tried to wrap his head around it. Natasha did magic. Natasha was magic. "The lights?" he twirled his fingers around his arm.

She nodded again.

"So Shield…"

"No. This is nothing to do with Shield."

"So it's a hobby?" Steve asked. "You hunt down people in your spare time?"

The look she turned on him was cool. "Someone has to do it."

He huffed at her.

"I think I deserve more than that," Bucky said.

He didn't think Natasha was going to respond, then she turned her mug around in her hands, watching the coffee swirl, and said, "You're right, you do. It _is_ nothing to do with Shield. Officially. Unofficially, there's a group inside Shield that deals with magic. It's been there since the beginning."

"Are you going to tell them about Steve?"

Her eyes flicked to Steve, back to him. "No."

The rush of relief made his knees wobble.

"That's all I can tell you."

" _I_ can tell you it's a damn good thing it's there. You want people getting turned inside out, that's fine, but it's not something I'm a fan of," Clint said. "Someone has to stop people who see magic as a shortcut to their inner evil overlord and a lot of the time that's us. These are not good people," he said, paused, then added, "And we'd sure like to know how you ended up looking like one of them."

Bucky stared at him for a beat, then couldn't stop the corner of his mouth from curling up. "Nice segue."

Clint grinned at him. "Thanks."

"Steve?" Bucky said, because he'd already shared more of Steve's secrets than he was comfortable with.

"Bucky told you most of it. One day he showed up with this hodge podge mix of different things, including the spell to enslave a black dog."

Natasha's eyes narrowed. "Where did you find that?"

"I followed an internet rabbit hole," Bucky said. "I still have the site bookmarked. It's got scans of a bunch of old books, they're supposedly spell books. Most of them aren't in English. One of them had it."

"How did you read it?"

"They're annotated."

She muttered something in what Bucky thought was Russian, and obscene enough to strip paint if only his walls spoke the language.

"I'll send you the link."

"Thank you," she said and shifted her attention back to Steve. "You didn't mind Bucky using a spell like that on you?"

Bucky viscerally remembered the moment, Steve driving him back, eyes gleaming gold. But stronger than that, the memory of Steve's hand taking his, lifting him up, bringing him back into the cemetery, them standing so close together. Steve _trusting_ him.

Steve held her eyes, unblinking and silent, long enough _Bucky_ started to get uncomfortable, then he said, "It's Bucky."

He'd never heard two words sound so much like declaration, and so much like accusation. Something flashed through Natasha's eyes in response as it hit home and Clint winced.

An uncomfortable silence fell, one Bucky didn't feel any particular need to break, and then Natasha asked, "Bucky? What do you think magic is?"

"What do you mean?"

"You said 'it's not magic, it's just things'. What do you think magic is?"

"I don't know." He didn't really want to think about it and he shifted uncomfortably. Steve leaned against his shoulder, settling him.

"Magic is," she and Clint had a brief silent conversation, he nodded, and she went on, "at its most basic it's will and stubbornness and wanting something badly enough the world's will bends instead of yours. That's why people use spells. They don't take much effort, because if the spell's been around long enough, if it's been used enough, it's worn down the will of the world. Like a hundred people walking the same path over and over again."

Bucky looked at her blankly. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because of what you did. Because you must have been really determined to get him free." She pointed a finger at Steve. "Because some dirt and bits of bone and a mangled spell shouldn't have been enough on their own."

All he could do was stare.

"Congratulations, Bucky, you did magic. And you did something I didn't think was possible. You took what should have been death magic, what stinks like death magic, and you turned it into something else."

He felt like he'd swallowed a toad that was wriggling around in his stomach—possibly one that might have been a prince at some point, if this conversation was anything to go by. "Is it going to happen again?"

"Not unless you want it badly enough."

"Good."

"There's something else I need to know."

"What's that?" Steve asked, for which Bucky was grateful, since he was busy staring at his feet. Magic exists, yes, he had to accept that, but now he had to deal with the fact that he'd done some? _No, if I did magic, I didn't do it alone. I did it with Steve. If we bent the will of the world, we did it together._

"How are you…this?" Natasha was asking Steve. "A human spirit wrapped in a grim."

Steve's eyes shuttered, flecks of gold bubbling to the surface. "That's personal. I didn't hurt anyone, I wasn't trying to hurt anyone to end up this way if that's what you need to know." _And that's all you're going to know_ , his body language screamed.

Bucky fumbled for his hand, slid his fingers through Steve's. "He answered your question." There was finality in his voice, a match for what Steve's body was saying. "And now there's something we need to know."

Natasha looked at him expectantly.

"You said you were going to deal with Steve." A tangle of emotions, anger, fear, roaring protectiveness made him tug Steve closer. "What does that mean."

"Nothing bad," Clint said.

All three of them turned to stare at him.

"It's nothing bad. That's what you were thinking," he said shrewdly. "Wasn't it?"

"Can you blame me?" Bucky asked bluntly.

"No. No, I really can't. Not after tonight. But we weren't going to hurt him. We don't do that. Grims are victims. Whatever they're made to do, they're victims. We don't hurt them. The people that enslave them? Yeah, those people…" He trailed off at a sharp look from Natasha and scratched the back of his neck. "Uh, never mind. But the grims we don't hurt. We get them free."

"Black dogs," Bucky muttered, deliberately ignoring what Clint hadn't said.

"Sorry?" Clint said.

"They're black dogs. Not grims."

"Sure, okay." He shrugged. "Black dogs, grims, spectral hounds, call 'em whatever you want, they're still victims."

Bucky closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose with the hand not holding Steve's, mind whirling with everything he wanted to know. He opened his eyes, surprised when Steve asked, "What do they want with black dogs? What do they do with them when they're enslaved?"

He was leaning forward, eyes intent, flecks of gold sliding through the blue, and suddenly Bucky _wasn't_ surprised. It had almost happened to his little hound. Of course he wanted to know.

"It depends," Clint hedged, like he didn't want to answer.

"Weapon or energy source," Natasha said. "Sometimes both."

"But it's not like it's happening every day," Clint added. "No one _believes_ in black dogs. Not even people who know about magic believe in them. People don't believe in any of the old myths. The ones who do are pretty few and far between."

"It's enough," Natasha said to Clint.

"It's not that many," he replied with the cadence of well-worn conversation. "But yeah," he conceded, "it's enough."

"When someone does believe," Natasha turned back to Bucky, "or they find their way to believing, which usually takes a walk down a long dark road, and they get their hands on a gr—" She stopped, started again. "On a black dog, they have an almost perfect weapon."

Bucky opened his mouth to ask _what?_ , then slowly closed it as his brain supplied the answer. Steve could choose who saw him. He could phase through anything. He'd taken down a deer in seconds. If he wanted to kill someone, if he wanted to kill a lot of someones, if he was _forced_ to kill a lot of someones…what could stop him? His eyes shifted sideways to meet Steve's and he could see the same realisation there.

He swallowed hard. "Right." He leaned into Steve. "And the other thing? The energy source?"

"Black dogs are meant to last forever, which means there's a lot of power in them. Remember how I said magic is just the world's will bending instead of yours?"

Bucky nodded.

"You can boost your will with power from somewhere else. Freely given or…"

"Or drained out of a black dog," Steve finished, a growl under his words.

"Or drained out of a black dog," she agreed. "And it's not the kind of power that can be turned to good ends. Taken that way, it taints everything it touches."

He believed her. And he could almost understand. Almost understand why she'd done this the way she had. He wasn't sure he could forgive her, not right away, but with everything they'd said, maybe the 'get the drop on them first and then ask questions' approach was almost understandable. Even if it hurt. "What happens when you get them free?"

"There's nothing binding them anymore, so they unravel and fade away. It doesn't hurt," she added with surprising softness. "They're calm when they go."

Steve, who'd tensed when he asked the question, relaxed. A quick glance showed his eyes were a calm blue. Natasha's words had meant something to Steve, even if they hadn't to Bucky.

"Okay." Suddenly exhausted, he slumped back, clutching his ice cold coffee. He hadn't drunk a drop and he wasn't going to now. All he wanted to do was go back to bed. "Are we done?"

"No," she said.

He groaned.

"This is important." She stood and approached, cautiously, because Steve straightened and placed himself in front of Bucky. Bucky ran his hand down Steve's spine, gentle reassurance, because he didn't believe Natasha meant him any harm. He wasn't sure she'd meant him harm at any point tonight. With a reluctant grumble, Steve shifted to the side.

"Can I touch it?" She pointed at the lump under Bucky's shirt.

"No." His voice threaded through Steve's as they said it simultaneously, and he covered it protectively with his hand. This was Steve's freedom, possibly his _existence_ , and no matter how much he was maybe beginning to understand the choices she'd made, he wasn't letting her touch it.

"That's fair," she said. "Can I get closer to it?"

"Why?"

"I need to feel it."

That didn't actually answer the question, at least not in a way Bucky could understand, but he nodded, wrapped his fingers around the pouch, and held it out. Steve was on the alert next to him, ready to act if she tried anything. He didn't think she would, but he wasn't prepared to take chances with Steve.

She spread her fingers and hovered her hand a few inches away from the pouch, shuddered, then pulled them back. "If you don't mask that, you're going to have worse than us coming after you. People who want to recruit you and people who want to kill you, and I don't know which would be worse. You used it to do something good, something you both wanted, but you still reek of death magic. You need to cover it up."

"Can you do it?"

"Not me. But I know someone who can help. I'll call you tomorrow if he's willing."

 

*   *   *

 

When they were gone, with not much more said than that—although Clint gave them a salute, two fingers to his forehead, and a quick, "I'm really glad you're not evil," as he limped out the front door and pulled it shut—Steve stayed where he was, watching Bucky.

He looked exhausted, like he was seconds from melting into a puddle on the floor. Steve plucked the coffee mug from his hands and put it in the sink. Under Bucky's half-lidded gaze, he shifted and did the rounds of the living room and the kitchen and down the hall, then returned, shifted back, and led Bucky to the bedroom.

It was easy enough to push Bucky down into bed, no fight left in him—at least, no fight for Steve—and he manhandled him around until his back was to both the door and Steve.

Steve was between Bucky and the door. Steve was wrapped around Bucky, his chin on Bucky's head, his arms around Bucky, holding him tight. No one could get to Bucky without going through him and anyone trying would regret it.

Bucky slipped his hand through Steve's and lifted it to his mouth to kiss it. Once on his knuckles, once on the sensitive skin at the fold of his thumb, and once on his palm, before pressing Steve's hand over his heart.


	17. Chapter 17

Bucky slept late the next day. It was after ten when he woke up to the memory of sleeping safe, curled in Steve's arms, but there was no sign of Steve when he opened his eyes. "Steve?" he murmured, and after a few minutes Steve appeared, carrying a coffee in one hand and Bucky's phone in the other. He set both down on the bedside table and then perched cross-legged on the end of the bed, hands resting on Bucky's blanket-covered feet.

"How are you feeling?" Steve asked.

"How are _you_ feeling?"

Steve smiled his slow smile. "What, do you want us both to answer at the same time?"

"Smart ass."

"All of me is smart, not just my ass."

Bucky blinked at him for a bit, then shuffled up just enough he wouldn't pour it on his face and grabbed the coffee. If Steve was going to be in this kind of mood he needed caffeine to keep up with him. While he drank his coffee, Steve moved closer, once more resting his hands on Bucky's feet.

"Foot fetish?"

"I just like touching you."

Warmth like coffee spilled into his veins and lit up his heart, unfolding like flowers in the sun, and he sipped his coffee and laid his cards on the table. "You know I'm halfway in love with you, right?"

Steve eyed him, gold flecks swimming through the brilliant blue. "Only half way? Better move faster then, you've got a ways to go if you want to catch up to me."

Bucky grinned. "It might be a little more than halfway."

"A little more?"

"About halfway more."

Bucky just had time to set his coffee down before Steve was leaning over him, hands planted on either side of his head, knees against his hips, dipping down to kiss him. He was bright and solid and cool, and Bucky slid his hands up Steve's back, tangling them in his hair, holding him close.

When Steve lifted his head and Bucky chased after him, pulling him back for one more kiss and one more, and another after that, his eyes were pure, brilliant blue. He collapsed to lie next to Bucky, curling into his side, one leg thrown over him, cheek resting on Bucky's shoulder.

Bucky ran his hand in long slow strokes down Steve's back.

"Last night really happened, didn't it?" he asked after a while.

Steve nodded. "And there's a message for you. That's why I brought your phone."

Bucky grabbed it. The message was from Natasha, had come in at just before seven. It said: _Didn't want to wake you up. Go here at noon and he'll take care of you,_ and there was an address.

"That's not ominous at all," he said and read it to Steve. 

"Do you still trust her?"

"With me," he paused while he thought about it, "yeah, I do. With you?" He rested his chin on Steve's head. "I think so. What do you think?"

"I think I'm pissed as hell at her for hurting you."

Bucky smiled.

"But I also think if she believed either of us were a threat, she would have dealt with it last night. She said she was going to help you hide this." Steve touched the pouch around Bucky's neck, and Bucky shivered. "She didn't need to do that. We wouldn't have known you were in danger if she hadn't told us. I don't think there's anything wrong except she needs to learn to communicate better."

"That's always been a problem."

"There you go." Steve propped himself on his elbow and kissed him. "And if we're going, you need to finish your coffee and get ready, unless you want to go to a mysterious meeting in cow pyjamas."

 

*   *   *

 

The address was a house, medium sized and ordinary looking, perched at the edge of an older suburb—not quite white picket fence and garden gnome territory, but the houses were clearly _homes_ , not just places people lived.

Bucky parked on the street and walked up the driveway, Steve by his side in black dog shape, pressed against his leg and visible only to Bucky. The lawn was short, scattered generously with trees, but they'd been left to go a little wild, trimmed back so they wouldn't interfere with power lines or gutters, but the only shape they had was what nature had given them.

The door had a screen, and a doorbell, and behind the screen it was painted a deep blue. Which was unusual enough he was still staring at it when it opened.

Which meant he was left staring at the man who'd opened it.

It felt like it should have been a surprise, but somehow it wasn't.

"Was the deer really hopped up on meth?" he asked.

Sam leaned against the doorframe, arms folded. "To be fair, I never said it _was_ ," he pointed out. "I said _imagine_ how a deer with a gutful of meth would act."

He opened his mouth, closed it, then frowned. Sam grinned and Steve huffed, amused. Bucky gave up. "Hi Sam."

"Hey, Bucky. Long time no see." He made a show of looking around. "What I don't see is either pizza or beer. Didn't you promise me both of those things?"

"If I'd known I was coming to see _you_ , instead of just being given a mysterious address, maybe I could have brought one or both of those things."

Sam laughed and opened the screen door, and Bucky followed him into the house, fumbling to catch the cordless phone Sam tossed him.

"Speed dial one. Delivery, tell them it's for Wilson. They have my order on file, double it since there's two of us." He grinned at Bucky. "You can at least make good on your offer of pizza."

He turned the phone over in his hands: white plastic, looked like it had escaped through a time machine from the nineties. "Why do you have _this_?"

"Because I employ many and varied methods of communication," Sam replied, raising an eyebrow. "Do you need help using it?"

"No, I know how to use a phone. Is it a," he lowered his voice, "a _magic_ thing?"

Sam cracked up. "Yeah, Bucky. It's a magic thing. Magic only works if we use old technology. Now order the damn pizza so we can get this started. You are stinking up the place and I don't want to have to get someone in to fumigate."

Bucky narrowed his eyes, but he ordered the pizza.

While Bucky was talking to the pizza place, who did indeed have Sam's order on file, Sam put a glass of water in front of an overstuffed easy chair and waved him into it. Bucky hung up the phone, handed it back to Sam like it was a wet fish, and sat in the chair. Steve jumped up and stretched across his lap, still invisible to Sam but watching him closely.

Sam made himself comfortable on the couch across from him. "Okay, so first thing. Did you bring…" He trailed off.

"Steve?" Bucky offered.

"The grim's name is Steve? Seriously?"

"Black dog," Bucky corrected, "and yes. Steve, you want to—"

Steve appeared, eyes gleaming gold, ears high, staring straight at Sam.

"You weren't kidding." Sam leaned forward. "I'll be damned. And he can really change?"

"Yes, he can," Steve snarked as he shifted, moving to sit on the back of the chair, legs pressed against Bucky's shoulder, feet on the chair's arm. Bucky wrapped a hand around Steve's ankle.

"Holy shit," Sam whispered reverently. "Natasha told me, but I didn't…" He shook his head. "Sorry to talk about you like you weren't here, you're just a lot to take in. I'm Sam."

He stood and walked over to offer Steve his hand.

Steve stilled. It was only for an instant, but Bucky felt it. Then he shook Sam's hand, eyes and smile warm. Bucky felt a tiny echo of that warmth lodge itself in his gut. Steve was a person. Even if he was dead and a black dog he was still a person, and it was _good_ to see him treated like one by someone besides Bucky.

"Steve. Good to meet you." He cocked his head as he let go of Sam's hand. "You can help us with our problem?"

"Should be able to," he said, resuming his seat. "I've had some practice making things look harmless." 

"And weaselling about deer," Bucky said, because he wasn't going to let it go.

"Uh huh, and would you like to hum me a few bars of Waterloo?"

Bucky rubbed the back of his neck, feeling instantly sheepish, because Sam may have weaselled, but he'd outright _lied_. "Sorry," he offered.  

Sam shook his head. "It's okay. I get it. We both had things to protect." His face split in a wide grin. "And I have to admit, the image of you standing in an overgrown cemetery belting out ABBA is hilarious."

Steve chuckled, and Bucky shot him a look of mock-betrayal, before turning back to Sam. "Can I ask, what was really wrong with the deer? I get it if you can't tell me."

"No," Sam said thoughtfully. "I think it's okay for you to know. I think maybe you should know. Some people were using it as a test run for something they were planning to use on fighting dogs." All traces of humour had vanished from Sam's voice.

"Are you serious?" Bucky said, feeling a low rumble ripple through Steve.

"Dead serious. That's the kind of low grade evil we _have_ to deal with. People cooking up magic and letting it loose on things with no way of fighting back. They tested it on the deer, and it _was_ a hundred percent trying to kill you, but it wasn't in its right mind. And if I hadn't tracked them down and stopped it, they'd have dropped it into the illegal dog fighting rings. That shit's bad enough on its own, you add magic into the mix and it turns into…" He trailed off, shaking his head, like words weren't enough.

"Jesus," Bucky said, shaken.

"It was _wrong_ , the deer." Bucky turned to look up at Steve. He was watching Sam. "It reeked of _wrongness_. That's why your people burned it."

"Saw that, did you?"

"They were in my cemetery. Of course I saw it." His eyes narrowed. "That's why you took Bucky out, because you knew about me."

"I didn't know. I suspected. Wasn't sure what else could have taken down that deer, wasn't sure what else would have, and I didn't know how'd you feel about us being in your territory. I couldn't be sure we wouldn't be next."

It was hard to tell who bristled more: Bucky or Steve. Bucky's, "Steve would never," wove through and tangled with Steve's, "I protected him," and they stopped and stared at each other. Bucky tilted his head slightly, leaving it to Steve.

"I'd never, no black dog would ever, hurt anyone who wasn't a danger. We're protectors. That's what we do. It's what we are." 

"And I don't take risks with bystanders. Bucky was a bystander."

"Was?" Bucky asked hesitantly.

The look Sam turned on him was grave. "Was. You're part of it now, whether you like it or not. There's a whole other world out there. If you're lucky, this is all you'll ever see of it, but you've opened a door you can't close. There's no going back."

Sam rubbed a hand over his face.

"For the record, I wasn't completely on board with how Natasha went about confronting you, but it was her call. You're her friend. You were her responsibility. She didn't want to do it, but both our jobs, the one Shield pays us for and the one we do because there's no one else to do it? Sometimes we don't get to choose." He paused, then added, "Most of the time it doesn't turn out this well."

"I kind of started to figure that out on my own."

"Good. Okay, for my own peace of mind, let's get this started." At Bucky's questioning look, Sam said, "Every instinct I've got is telling me to put you into the ground."

Bucky stared at him, taken aback. 

"You could try," Steve said, but it was amused, he felt relaxed where he was pressed against Bucky, and Sam gave a quick snort of laughter.

"Uh huh, I think I'll pass, thanks, but I figured Bucky'd rather have truth." He shifted his gaze to Bucky. "Everything Natasha's ever said about you, you don't seem like the kind of person who prefers sugar coating."

"No, I'd rather know." Even if he was reeling slightly from the idea that Natasha talked about him. "What do you need me to do?"

"Mostly hold still. Did Natasha explain anything about how this works?"

"She said it's basically about being stubborn enough that the world bends instead of you."

"Yeah, that's sounds like something she'd say. It's right as far as it goes." Sam looked at him thoughtfully. "Wait here."

While he was gone, Steve said, "I like him."

"Me too." He threaded his fingers through Steve's. "How come you never told me magic was what made the deer crazy?"

"I didn't know it was magic. I just knew it was _wrong._ Wrong like the people that came to enslave my little hound."

Bucky smiled softly at hearing Steve call her _his_.

"I never thought of it as magic, not anymore than you did." He touched the pouch and Bucky could hear himself saying: _it's not magic, it's just things_. "I could smell the wrongness, I could feel it, almost taste it. The deer was like an infected wound." Steve stroked his fingers along Bucky's jaw, tilting his head up. "You were like clean, clear water."

He brushed cool fingers down the sensitive skin of his throat and Bucky couldn't help a pleasant shiver.

Steve smiled and bent forward to kiss his forehead. "And we never talked about it." He slipped down to sit on the arm of the chair, resting his chin on Bucky's shoulder, and Bucky turned his head. Steve's eyes were so close, he could see every fleck and curl of blue, the faint sparks of gold in his eyes. Steve kissed the tip of his nose, his cheek, brushed a light kiss across his lips and Bucky's eyes fluttered shut. "I wasn't keeping things from you."

"I know."

A clearing throat brought their heads around and Bucky opened his eyes. Sam was staring at them. "You know what? I'm not going to ask. At all. Bucky, I need you to pull that thing out from under your shirt."

He did. Sam's whole body tensed.

"Are you sure about this?" Steve asked.

"I'm sure. This is just way outside my experience. You've got, what, Steve's bones in there? Grave dirt?"

"And a tooth from the hound they killed to make the original black dog," Bucky said, hand curled protectively over the pouch. "If it makes you feel better, think of it as her memorial."

"Right. Okay. Never thought of it that way before." He came closer and held out a tiny piece of mirrored glass, smooth as silk around the edges. "Hold out your hand."

He did and Sam dropped it into his palm. It was warm, the same way the pouch was sometimes warm, more than body heat could account for.

"I need you to add that to your bones and dirt."

Steve stiffened. "No."

Bucky shook his head; those bones and dirt were Steve's _freedom_. "Not until you tell us what it does."

"Nothing bad," Sam said. "I give you my word on that. Nothing at all until I activate it. Then it'll make a mirror of the magic in the bag. Right now it's death magic. I know, I know, you're not doing anything wrong with it, however the hell you two managed that, but this'll make it look like the opposite of what it is, like good magic."

"Which is what it is," Steve said. "I don't care what it looks like."

"Yes, but we need to make it look like that to other people. I know Natasha told you what could happen if we don't."

Bucky cradled the pouch, ran a finger over the outside, then looked up at Sam. "And if I ever start using it for bad things, with your magic in there… Will you know?"

"I'll know. Is that a problem?"

Since he had no intention of ever doing anything wrong with it, since he wouldn't have the faintest idea of where to even start doing anything wrong with it… "No. Not a problem. How do we do this?"

"You hold still. Steve there doesn't try to gnaw my ankles for touching you, and I'm just going to put my hand on your shoulder for a bit. From your perspective, it'll probably feel like nothing is happening. Sound okay?" 

"It'll feel like nothing, but you'll be doing magic."

"I'll be doing magic. That still weirds you out, huh?"

"So much."

Sam laughed. Bucky opened the pouch and carefully unsealed the bag inside. The scent of dirt and age and something he didn't know how to place swirled out, none of it unpleasant. He hesitated, checking with Steve, who nodded, then dropped the piece of mirrored glass in and sealed it back up, checking it carefully before tightening the pouch again.

"Ready?" Sam asked.

"Ready."

"Steve, you're good?"

"I'm good."

Sam's hand settled on his shoulder, and he leaned over Bucky, eyes intent.

This felt familiar. Sam's hand on his shoulder, that look in his eyes. He frowned. "Did you do something to me before?"

"Define something."

"When you brought me home after the deer." Steve was alert, waiting for the answer.

Sam gazed at the ceiling. "Might have done." He cast Bucky a sly look. "Did it seem like your leg healed a bit fast?"

Bucky stared at him.

"I should have asked first, but…"

"But not really possible. It's okay. Thanks."

Sam smiled, eyes crinkling at the edges. "You're welcome. Now be quiet and think happy thoughts."

Bucky shut up and did his best. Happy thoughts. He could do that. He had Steve sitting next to him, cool and solid. He leaned into him. Wrapped his hand around Steve's wrist. Felt Steve's hand twist to grab his. _Happy thoughts._ He had Steve. He was happy. He loved Steve. Quarterway and halfway and entirely.

"What are you thinking?" Steve murmured in his ear, cool lips brushing his skin and making him shiver.

"You."

It got him a kiss.

"Still not asking, but I'm done." Sam paused. "In case either of you care."

Bucky shook himself. "You're done?"

Sam inclined his head.

"No more reeking of death magic?"

"Nope, you smell like…well, like a normal white guy now, which still isn't anything to write home about, but you're welcome here anytime."

The doorbell rang.

"Especially if you pay for the pizza."

 

*   *   *

 

They'd been home from Sam's for a few hours, Steve curled against Bucky's side, using Bucky's outflung arm as a pillow while Bucky napped behind him on the couch, when he heard Natasha walk down the hallway outside the apartment.

Last night, if he'd been awake, if he'd been aware—if he'd been the dog—there was no way she and Clint would have reached Bucky's room without him knowing.

As he listened to Natasha approach the front door Steve decided it wasn't a bad thing that he hadn't sensed them—and he had to wonder if she'd somehow masked their approach with magic—because he would have fought to keep them away from Bucky. Considering everything they'd learned between then and now, that could only have been bad for Bucky. It would have confirmed their worst suspicions.

He was still angry—she should have trusted Bucky, she should have _known_ he couldn't carry that kind of wrongness inside him—but it was better that she'd taken them by surprise. Not as good as if she'd just knocked on the door and _talked_ to Bucky, but better.

She was knocking now, and Steve wondered why she was here. "It's Natasha," he said, gently nudging Bucky awake as he stretched to his feet to offer Bucky a hand up.

Bucky hesitated, then let Steve pull him to his feet and went to answer the door, Steve staying a close step behind him.

Bucky opened the door, but he didn't let her in. They stood looking at each other as silent tension swirled around them. Eventually, he turned to Steve, as if Steve was the one who had to decide. Since Natasha gave the impression of being willing to stand there until the world crumbled to dust around them, he nodded, and Bucky stepped back to let her in.

She inclined her head slightly in Steve's direction as she walked past him and went to sit at the kitchen table. She was carrying two brown bags and Steve could smell the cinnamon wafting from them. 

With a soft sigh and the ghost of a smile, Bucky closed the door and went to start a pot of coffee. When it was done he poured two mugs, added milk to his, and put the other one in front of her along with two plates. He didn't sit down, leaning against the counter as she placed two cinnamon buns on the plates and pushed one in his direction.

Steve looked back and forth between them. "If one of you doesn't say something, I'm going to start howling."

Bucky jumped, like Steve had startled him, and Natasha smiled slightly. "The neighbours will complain." 

Steve folded his arms. "The neighbours won't hear me."

"You can do that?" She looked intrigued.

"I can. I can also howl forever. Dead, remember? I don't need to breathe."

"Noted." She turned to Bucky. "You went to see Sam."

"You could have told me that was who I was going to see, instead of just texting me an address."

"No. If you decided not to go, you didn't need to know Sam was involved in this."

After a moment, Bucky said thoughtfully, "That makes sense, actually." He touched the lump under his shirt that was the pouch. "You can't feel it anymore?"

"Not as anything bad. Not as much of anything at all."

"That's good. Right?"

"It is."

They fell into silence again. Steve thought he was going to have to start howling when Natasha leaned back in her chair and said, in a voice tinged with regret, "I can't say I'm sorry."

"Then why are you here?" Bucky asked.

"Because I wish I could."

Bucky ran his hands through his hair, leaving it half-mussed, leaving Steve with the urge to run his fingers through it and smooth it down. "That makes no sense. If you're sorry just say so."

She delicately sipped her coffee. "Saying sorry implies you wouldn't do it again. And I would. Given the same circumstances, I'd have to." She set her mug down. "I'm…happy it wasn't what it looked like."

With a sigh, Bucky sat down across from her, pulled the cinnamon bun closer, and pulled a chunk off, popping it in his mouth. When he was done chewing, he said, "You really thought I could be someone who, what, turns people inside out?"

"I didn't want to."

"Then why do it like that? Why not just talk to me?"

"Because I couldn't take a chance. Bucky, the chance I gave you was more of a risk than I should have run. If you had been one of those people, that could have been enough for you to figure out I knew. It could have given you a chance to set up defences, to take hostages. To do things you _don't_ want to know about."

Bucky's voice was very quiet as he said, "It hurt that you didn't trust me."

"And that I _am_ sorry for." There was a moment of quiet, peaceful quiet not tearing tension, and then Natasha covered Bucky's hand with her own. Bucky looked up, startled. She squeezed gently. "I really am. And I'm glad you're who I always thought you were."

"And who's that?"

"Someone who didn't know any better than to ask _me_ for directions. Who doesn't know better than to get mixed up in death magic and use it to set a gr—" she stopped, glanced at Steve, then went on, "a black dog free." She pulled her hand away and picked up her coffee. "Someone I consider a friend."

The moment held, stretched, and then Bucky said, smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, "I never thought I'd see the day you'd get mushy."

"Shut up," she said, but her voice was light. Pleased.

"Seriously."

"They'll never find the body," she warned, but all Steve heard was relief and…affection. Tension lingered, but it was slowly fading. He wasn't sure he'd ever like Natasha, but she was trying, and he wanted Bucky to be happy. 

He also wasn't sure, for anyone but Bucky, that her approach was entirely wrong. He'd survived the kind of people who'd enslave a black dog and there'd been no good intentions there. He could still hear the words: _This isn't like sacrificing the odd mouse or rat or cat. This is getting into seriously dark magic._ They'd been killing things for power and she'd mentioned it so casually, like it didn't _matter_. If that wasn't what Natasha called death magic... They'd already been bad and they'd tried to graduate to something worse. If they'd succeeded, if Steve hadn't somehow saved her—and now he knew how he'd done it; he'd pitted his will against the world and _won_ —they would have turned his sweet little hound, wrapped as she'd been in the mantle of the black dog, into a weapon or drained her dry.

"Steve can always find me," Bucky said with a disdainful sniff, knocking Steve out of his memories, replacing them with waves of warmth. "I'm not worried."

"No, you're not, are you." She looked between them speculatively. "I noticed that."

Bucky's ears went pink and he pointedly ate another piece of cinnamon bun. Steve laughed internally. He didn't know how this was possible, or what he'd done to deserve it. He was dead. Dead and buried, yet here he was with something like life and a man he loved—a man who loved him—to share it with.

While he didn't care about Natasha's sensibilities, he _did_ care about Bucky and Bucky's blush, but he needed to be close to him, he needed to be next to him, right now. It was the simplest thing in the world to vanish from her sight—she didn't react beyond a slight shift of her eyes—and wrap his arms around Bucky from behind, phasing through the chair. Bucky jumped a little, then relaxed into him as Steve whispered, "She can't see me."

Steve ran his nose up Bucky's neck, kissed the hollow behind his ear, then buried his face in the crook of Bucky's neck as he and Natasha began to tentatively reforge their relationship.


	18. Chapter 18

The scene stretched out before Bucky was a strange mix of the natural and the technological. The hilltop was beautiful, rugged, natural rock formations and trees scattered around the edges of the clearing, while in the distance the huge dish loomed over them like the wing of a benevolent monster. People rushed past him, intent on their jobs, creating a strange, distracted dance between the rivers of thick bundled wires and the islands of equipment.

Bucky didn't imagine it was simple to broadcast a live outdoor performance to space.

He absently wondered how much the privilege was costing, then shuddered and stopped. He did wonder _why_ someone would want to, though. Novelty? Ego? Wanting to hit the top ten on Omicron Persei 8? He guessed if you had enough money, _because I can_ was reason enough.

They stayed where they were, Steve watching everything, gold eyes glowing in the darkness, Bucky afraid of walking into someone's path and turning the organised chaos into true chaos. Eventually a young woman in bright purple (and he was pretty sure steel-toed) boots, her long black hair pulled back in a ponytail, noticed him and approached, flapping her clipboard.

"This area is closed to the public. You have to leave. There's a lookout a few miles down the road if you want a view."

"I'm James Barnes," he said. "I'm here for the test. I should be somewhere on someone's list?"

Her eyes narrowed in suspicion, but she checked her clipboard. "Oh." She gave him a surprised smile, and he no longer feared the application of steel-toed boots. "Hey, look at you, there you are. James Barnes. Good. I'm Kate. Come on. Heimdall wanted to see you when you arrived." 

He followed her, sticking close to her heels as she wove her way through the people and equipment and brightly marked wires, Steve following along.

"Heimdall," she called. "I found him. He was lurking." She turned to Bucky. "Don't lurk. It makes people suspicious."

"I'll remember," he promised solemnly. "No lurking."

"See that you do." She nodded firmly, then was gone calling out, "Miles! America! Come help me with the thing!"

Heimdall was studying him and Bucky unconsciously stood straighter under his gaze. "Is it still okay that I'm here?" he asked.

"We couldn't do this without you. You are our guinea pig, after all."

Bucky knew it wasn't true. They could use anything to test that the equipment was working, but it was nice of him to say so. The moments ticked past and Heimdall was still studying him. He could feel Steve growing uneasy by his side.

"You've changed since I last saw you," Heimdall finally said. 

Bucky swallowed hard, because he hadn't. The only thing different was what Sam had done. But no one could know that, not unless… He stopped. Glanced down at Steve. Looked up at Heimdall and _really_ looked at him. "Have I?"

"Yes. Not a bad change, a change for the better. But then I chose to believe the last change wasn't what it seemed."

Bucky's heart _stopped_. He had no idea what to say, but his brain was insisting he say _something._ It finally settled on, "Why are you letting me do this?"

"Because you wanted it very badly. When something's that important to someone and it costs me nothing to give it, it would be," here he paused, "wrong not to. Would I be correct in thinking there's more to tonight than you've said?"

"Yes," he whispered.

"And it won't harm anyone?"

"No." He glanced down again. Steve met his eyes and, after a short pause, nodded. "No, it's hopefully going to help someone. Someone who's been alone for a very long time."

"Ah." Heimdall's eyes were filled with questions, but he didn't say anything else. Then he smiled, gestured, and almost like magic, a teenage boy, dark skin, curly hair, and excited eyes, appeared at Bucky's side.

"If you'd like to come over here, they're about to start testing. You can get set up." He drew Bucky away as Heimdall turned to talk to the half dozen people who suddenly arrived, clamouring for his attention. "I'm Miles," he said, giving Bucky a quick smile. "I'm going to be in charge of you while you're here. Have you got what you need to play?"

Bucky pulled a digital recorder out of his pocket. "Right here."

Miles stared at it, then coughed to cover what Bucky was sure was a laugh. "Okay, well, you can hold that near the microphone. We just need sound."

There was nothing on the recorder but a stock recording of howling wolves. He just had to provide a cover for Steve, Steve who'd be singing his heart out, and they hoped he'd be picked up by the equipment.

"What do you do?" Miles asked. "Are you some sort of scientist?" He gave the digital recorder in Bucky's hand a dubious look, but gamely added, "Or musician?"

"No," Bucky said, stifling a laugh because Miles' dubiousness was making him remember his reaction to Sam's phone. "I'm a writer. Technical writer. Policies, manuals, stuff like that."

Miles wrinkled his nose. "That sounds…nice."

"It's okay, most people think it's boring as, uh, heck."

The look he got was so perfectly teenager, he almost wanted to bottle it. "I have heard swearing before, Mr Barnes."

"Bucky."

"Okay, I haven't heard that one."

"It's my name. Bucky. Not Mr Barnes."

"Oh. Right. Okay, Bucky, here we are." He led Bucky into a circle of complex equipment, not quite like anything Bucky had seen before. The only thing he recognised was the microphone, which Miles adjusted down. "When that light," he pointed, "goes green, just start playing your thing. Got it?"

"Got it."

"Have you got any questions for me?"

"One, but it's none of my business."

Looking slightly intrigued, Miles shrugged. "Ask anyway."

"Do you know _why_ someone wants to broadcast a live performance to space?"

"Oh, _that_." Miles very obviously didn't roll his eyes. "I don't know for sure, but I think it's one-upmanship."

"One-upmanship?"

"Yeah, I think so. There's this singer who beamed her whole album to space a couple of years ago. This guy, the one doing the broadcast, thinks they're rivals, who knows for sure if they actually are, but he decided he had to broadcast a _live performance_ to space. He was willing to pay for it," he shrugged again, "so here we all are."

"Huh."

"Problem?"

"No, I just thought it was going to be more interesting than that."

Miles grinned. "It's plenty interesting from our end, I promise. You think chances like this come along every day?"

"No," Bucky said quietly while Steve leaned against his legs. "No, I really don't."

Miles gave him an odd look, but didn't ask. "If that's all you need…?"

Bucky nodded.

"Then I'm going to leave you to it. Remember, green light and you start. It should be about five-ten minutes."

"Thanks, Miles."

"No worries."

And then he was alone, in a circle of equipment and no doubt audio and video pickups, and he couldn't talk to Steve, couldn't reassure Steve, couldn't crouch down and wrap his arms around him and press his face into his coat. Steve bumped his head against his hand and he _could_ curl his fingers around Steve's ear, the movement hidden by his leg.

The minutes ticked past, and Steve paced a circle around Bucky. The light turned green and Bucky played his recording of howling wolves. Next to him, pressed against his leg so Bucky could feel his ribs vibrating, Steve tipped back his head and sang his heart to the sky. Reaching out, trying to forge a connection.

If he could just reach her, just once, lock it into place, she wouldn't be alone anymore.

But maybe this wouldn't work. Maybe what human ears couldn't hear, human equipment wouldn't carry—but maybe it would, maybe it would be enough. _Please let it be enough._ He could hear people talking, muttering, calling to each other to adjust this and adjust that, but he was barely paying attention, his whole focus on Steve.

Suddenly Heimdall was standing next to him, on the opposite side from Steve. He didn't speak, just placed one hand on Bucky's shoulder.

Gold flashed, but it wasn't Steve's eyes. _Heat_ and _light_ flared through Bucky, swirled through Steve who was pressed against Bucky's leg, rebounded back and tingled in Bucky's fingers to crackle invisible in the air around them and Heimdall placed his other hand on the tangle of wires snaking out of the equipment. Bucky sucked in a gasp because Steve was suddenly _there_ , part of him, as the world raced past and a watchful presence surrounded them, guiding them, _driving them,_ up and into the sky, the universe opening around them and if he lifted his hand he could touch the stars.

Slowly, it faded. Wide-eyed, they both stared at Heimdall. He looked deeply pleased with himself as he let his hands fall, saying, "I thought you could use a boost."

Shaken, grateful, Bucky didn't know what to say.

Next to him, Steve must have faded into Heimdall's sight, because Heimdall smiled, wide and charmed.

"And this is your companion. You know, you could have shown yourself earlier."

Steve huffed and looked around, then raised what passed for eyebrows in this shape.

"A fair point. Now your message is carried, your work is done, and I suspect I'm about to be yelled at by some unhappy young people for disturbing _their_ equipment." 

Since a trio was bearing down on them, Kate in the lead, Miles behind her, a young woman whose shorts' purple stripe matched Kate's boots, her long black curls bouncing in an ominously cheerful way, completing the wedge, Bucky suspected he was right.

"Off you go now, Bucky, but I think we should talk again."

"Yes, I can't, I don't… _thank you_."

"You're welcome. Now go on."

They went, both wobbly, dazed, leaving Heimdall to gently explain to a trio of affectionately annoyed youngsters that he'd just been _curious_ about that particular piece of equipment, his voice following them into the night.

 

*   *   *

 

Bucky sat with his hands and head on the steering wheel, just breathing, gathering himself back up until he was sure it would be safe to drive.

Steve sprawled in the passenger seat, phased through the gearstick and centre console so he could lean on Bucky, blinking at him silently, blue eyes bright.

"You okay?" Bucky asked.

"Just a little," he waved a hand, "fluffy."

Bucky smiled and kissed his forehead. "You're in the wrong shape to be fluffy."

He laughed tiredly and Bucky started the car.

They made it partway down the mountain before Steve, brighter, more alert, said, "Pull in there."

It was a lookout, deserted apart from a fox who glared at them when they interrupted its scavenging and skittered into the trees. Steve scrambled out of the car and to the very edge of the lookout, a pale silhouette against the star-studded sky.

Bucky followed more slowly. "Steve?" 

"I can hear them." He closed his eyes, tipped his head back. "I can hear all of them."

Steve's face was ethereal in the starlight, at once ancient and new. Bucky hesitated, staying back, not wanting to intrude.

"I can hear them, Bucky. I can hear her." Tears brimmed, broke, streamed down his face. "I can hear her."

"It worked?"

Steve blindly reached out and caught Bucky's hand, dragging him closer, and wrapped himself around him, clinging with a strength beyond human, and his tears were cold and wet on Bucky's skin. "You did it."

"No." He held Steve close, not knowing how to comfort him, not knowing if he needed comfort. "It was us. It was us together."

Steve tipped his head back, the long pale column of his throat glowing in the darkness as he gazed into the sky. "It's beautiful," he whispered. "I wish you could hear her. I wish you could hear them. They're welcoming her, she's part of us now. She'll never be alone again. "

"I don't need to hear them," he whispered, the moment calling for reverence. "I can see you. I can see how beautiful it is."

Steve slowly tilted his head down. His eyes were pure gold, molten gold. He caught Bucky's cheeks between his hands, and Bucky could feel that incredible strength as Steve cradled his face. Steve's eyes held his, the gold gleaming bright, and Bucky didn't look away. He wasn't sure he could.

"You made this happen. We'll remember you made this happen. We'll remember you brought one of us home."

A shiver trailed down Bucky's spine.

"I didn't—"

"You did." There were growling harmonics rumbling under Steve's words. "And we'll remember."

Almost helplessly, Bucky said, "No one should have to be alone."

The wind whipped up, swirling around them, and he almost thought he could hear a distant howling, but it passed into silence, the wind settled, and the gold faded from Steve's eyes.

They were blue now, but no less bright, gleaming with wonder, with awe, with something too intense to name, and Steve leaned up and kissed him. Exquisitely gently, like Bucky was precious, and Bucky let out a shaky breath as Steve pulled back slightly, then kissed him again, intently, intensely, pushing closer, pressing his sharp, cool body against Bucky's, and Bucky wrapped his arms around him and pulled him even closer, so close he wondered if Steve had half phased through him.

He didn't care if he had.

He was breathing hard when Steve leaned back and smoothed his hand down Bucky's face, letting it trail down until he curled it over the pouch, which had shifted to lie over Bucky's heart.

"Bucky?"

"Yeah?" he managed to get out.

"Take me home."


	19. Chapter 19

The bedroom curtains were heavy, but the morning sun snuck around the edges to paint Steve in colours of rose and gold. Bucky propped himself on his elbow and watched him. He was slightly transparent, he could see the weave of the sheets through his bare skin, but it wasn't strange. It was simply Steve. Sometimes Bucky could see through him, sometimes he couldn't. Sometimes Steve faded under his fingers. Sometimes Steve was a beautiful black dog with brilliant gold eyes.

Always, always, Bucky loved him. "Quarterway and halfway and entirely," he whispered, snuggling closer. Steve might look slightly transparent, but he felt entirely solid and Bucky pillowed his head on Steve's arm.

Steve's hand came up to brush through his hair. "What was that?"

"How much I love you. Quarterway and halfway and entirely." Bucky turned his head to kiss Steve's arm, then snuggled down again, closing his eyes.

"Poetic."

"You inspire me."

Steve's laugh was a warm quiet thing, wrapping around him. "I do, do I?" Steve kissed his head. "Feel like that should be the other way around."

"Nope."

"Hmmm."

"No arguing." Bucky poked him. "I'm too," happy wasn't enough, not on its own, neither was content, "everything."

"Everything?" He could hear amusement in Steve's voice.

"Everything."

"Okay, no arguing, not if you're everything." Steve pulled him closer, wrapped him tight, and kissed his neck. "You going back to sleep?"

"Maybe. Unless you have a better idea?"

"Maybe." He felt Steve's grin against his neck, Steve's cool fingers moving over his skin and he caught Steve's mouth and gave himself over to it.

 

*   *   *

 

Bucky was sitting at his desk a couple of days later, working, ploughing through a set of induction manuals for a new mortgage broker opening in the city. It was standard office stuff he could do in his sleep, which was good, because his mind was not on his work.

It was at the edge of a lookout, where he’d stared out at a star-studded sky. It was at the edge of a cemetery, where he’d gripped tight to Steve's hand as he pulled him across the border.

It was in his living room, listening to Steve say _we're all trapped in our cemeteries, in our graveyards. Some of us still have dead to keep us company and some of us are alone._

Steve was out, he wasn't sure where beyond no further away than six miles from where Bucky was sitting—and the twinge of guilt at that was never going to leave him, even if he knew Steve accepted it, even if he knew he would always take Steve anywhere he wanted to go and never somewhere he didn't.

His fingers slowly stopped moving on the keys as he stared out the window. The curtains flapped in the breeze and he absently followed the motion. They were ugly, had been here when he'd moved in: corn cobs with arms and legs, wearing cowboy hats, dancing across the faded cream background. He'd always meant to change them and just never gotten around to it.

There was a thought forming in the back of his head, to do with Steve and the black dogs and Laika and maybe those curtains, and he sat and let it take shape. After a while, he hit Google and started reading. Then he took a deep breath, picked up the phone, and called Sam.

Sam had said he could call him if he had questions. He didn't think this was exactly what Sam had meant, but…

"Bucky. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

He took a deep breath. "I wanted to ask you something."

"And here I thought you'd be calling to make good on the beer."

"Next time, I swear, but Steve's out and I want to ask you about something while he's not here."

"Lover's quarrel? Cause I don't do relationship advice and I definitely don't do relationship advice for a man and his ghost dog."

Bucky pulled the phone away from his ear and made a face at it, then put it back. "Could you _not_ put it like that? That sounds worse than bad."

"I notice you're not denying the relationship part."

"No, I'm not." It was a little bit proud, a little bit defiant, because he loved Steve and he didn't care what Sam thought about it.

There was a short silence, then Sam said, "Okay then," sounding amused.

"Okay."

There was a longer silence, followed by, "Bucky, you called me. I'm good, but even I can't read minds."

"Right, sorry." He rubbed his temple, not even sure how to put it. "You said once I'd walked through the door I couldn't close it. What if wanted to walk through it more?"

"What exactly did you have in mind?" Sam asked, sounding beyond cautious.

"I don't think it's anything bad, but I don't know enough about this to be sure. It feels like it shouldn’t be, but I don't know. That's why I'm calling you and not Natasha. If it is, I don't want to..." He trailed off, not sure how to put it.

"You don't want to put her in the position of thinking you're planning a trip to the dark side."

"Yeah," he said on a breath of relief.

Sam was silent for a bit. "I think you're wrong," he finally said. "But I understand why you'd feel that way. You don't want to push anything. Right?"

"Right."

"You can talk to me. I don't want you to think you can't. But you can talk to her, too. You can talk to all of us."

"Even Clint?"

"Maybe especially Clint. He's been where you are."

Bucky blinked at the curtains, because he hadn't thought of that.

"Not exactly where you are," Sam went on. "His story's not mine to tell, it's nothing like yours, but he still went from knowing magic wasn't real to finding out hard and fast it was. You should ask him about it sometime."

"I will," Bucky said after a bit. "And I'm not saying I never want to talk to Natasha about this stuff. I just don't want the first thing I ask her to turn out to be something," he sighed and ran a hand through his hair, "something bad."

"I hear you. And I'm happy to help you out."

"Thanks, Sam."

"No problem. Okay, hit me with whatever it is you're thinking."

"There's over four hundred abandoned cemeteries in the US, more in Canada, and those are just the ones people have bothered to keep track of. From what I've read, chances are there's a lot more than that. "

"And?"

"And how many of those have a black dog?"

Sam didn't say anything.

"How many of them have a dog like Steve, I mean not like Steve, I don't think there's anyone like Steve, but a black dog who's alone, abandoned, their dead gone, their duty done, just waiting for people who are _never going to come_." He paced back and forth, phone clutched to his ear. "They're alone, Sam, and they shouldn't have to be. It's not right that they've just been left there, forgotten."

"What are you asking me here, Bucky?"

"I'm asking if undoing what was done to them, done to the dog they used to be, unbinding them from their cemeteries and the black dog and setting their spirits free would be bad."

Sam was quiet for a long time. "You're thinking you'd have Steve make sure they want to go?"

That they might not want to hadn't occurred to him, but he'd barely thought that far ahead.

He was silent for long enough that Sam said, gently, "Some of them might not want to leave. You can't make that choice for them."

"No. No, I know. I wouldn't do that."

"You'd have to learn magic, at least enough to do this."

He winced. "I know."

"We could build you what you need, but Natasha would be the best one to teach you."

Hope flared bright. "Does that mean…?"

"Yeah, Bucky, this is definitely not something bad."

His whoosh of relief made Sam chuckle.

"Plus there's something you didn't think of."

"Probably lots I didn't think of," he admitted, figuring there was no point being anything but honest. 

"We'll help you figure it out. If you really want to do this, you're not on your own. But what I was getting at was that if you do this, if the black dogs want to go, there's that many less for some evil asshole to enslave."

He went still, staring at the curtains. He _hadn't_ thought of that. He'd only been thinking of the dogs. But Sam was right. Clint had said it didn't happen all that much, Natasha had said it happened enough. He thought of Steve, of Steve's little hound that he'd given up his eternity to save, of the black dog who'd thought he was a danger to Steve and tried to protect him. _Even once is too many times._

 _"_ Bucky? Are you with me?"

"Yeah, Sam. I'm here. And I really want to do it. I just have to talk to Steve."

 

*   *   *

 

Steve trotted through the door and stretched, making himself visible at the same time. He'd been out at the park a few miles away, watching a little league game. It wasn't the major leagues, but the kids were cute and some of them really got into it. It was hard to resist the temptation to help out the littlest ones who got stuck way out in right field. Surely no one would notice if the ball suddenly found its way within easy reach of their hands.

Bucky appeared from down the hall, and Steve knew he hadn't made any noise; it was like Bucky had a sixth sense for when he got close.

Steve headed for the couch, expecting Bucky to join him. He wasn't expecting Bucky to say, "Steve, how attached are you to living here?"

He stopped in mid-stride, then kept going and flowed up onto the couch, shifting as he did so, lying back and stretching out.

"I'm gonna guess you didn't mean that the way it sounded."

Bucky gave him a puzzled look.

Steve knew he _hadn't_ meant it the way it'd sounded, but he couldn't help messing with him just a little. "Like you wanted me to leave?"

Now Bucky was frowning at him. "How would that even work?" He brushed his fingers over the pouch. "Not that you couldn't go if you—"

"No, we're not starting that again." Once was enough to last him forever. "Come here," he patted his chest, "and tell me what you're talking about."

He loved that Bucky didn't hesitate, just stood up and walked over and stretched himself across Steve like a blanket. He was taller, broader, wider, but he tucked down to the end of the couch, lying between Steve's legs, and rested his head on Steve's chest.

Steve wrapped his arms around him, curling a hand around the back of his neck, and Bucky let out a long low sigh.

"Good?" Steve asked.

"Great."

"Now talk."

"What would you think about going somewhere else and doing something else?"

"Depends on the something and the somewhere," he said thoughtfully. "Honestly, I don't much care where we go as long as it's _we_ , and my main concern is how much danger you're likely to be in." He craned his neck so he could see Bucky. "What are you thinking?"

"I talked to Sam today."

"About?" Steve asked, a touch more alert than he'd been a second ago, because there was only one thing he could think Bucky would be talking to Sam about.

"About teaching me a—I don't even know the right word—piece of magic?"

"I think it's probably spell."

"A magic spell." Bucky wrinkled his nose and Steve laughed quietly. "No, I just can't. Let's stick with piece of magic."

"Sure, Buck, whatever you say. What's this piece of magic supposed to do?"

It took Bucky a long time to answer. Time in which Steve started to worry. Started to wonder. Was on the edge of fretting, when he said, "Set black dogs free."

He looked up, expression cautious, almost wary. It made Steve's heart hurt. He kissed Bucky's forehead. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"I didn't know how you'd feel."

"You never have to look at me like that, Buck. I know you. I know what kind of man you are. Anything you're thinking, I know where it's coming from. It's coming from," he cast about, seeking the words, and found them, "good, it's coming from love and kindness. I love you but more, I _know_ you, I've learned you. You found me and you set me free. I told you about the black dog all alone in the dark, and you found a way so she didn't have to be alone. You didn't do it because you love me. You did it because you couldn’t not. Because it's who you are."

Bucky pressed his face into Steve's chest. "Shut up."

"I'll stop saying it, but I'm never gonna stop thinking it. Any idea you have, I'll listen and even if I don't agree with it, I'll know it was coming from the best place." He ran his fingers through Bucky's hair, ruffling it, and kissed his head. "Tell me about freeing the black dogs."

Bucky's voice was muffled as he talked. "There's hundreds of abandoned cemeteries, Steve. And each one of them might have a black dog. I thought, I can do my job from anywhere. If Sam and Natasha can teach me a piece of magic that could set the spirits of the dogs free, free from the cemeteries, free from the black dog, only the ones that _want_ to go," he added quickly, "then maybe we could do that."

There was no breath to be stolen from his body, no heart to stop beating and Steve thought that was just as well, that it was good he was _already_ dead, or he might have dropped dead on the spot. He hauled Bucky closer, wrapped his legs around him and held him tighter. "You'd do that for them."

"Well, yeah," he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. And to Bucky he knew it was.

"I love you." Bucky smiled like sunshine breaking through the storm and Steve kissed him, and kissed him, and kissed him again. "And yes. I think we should do that."


	20. Epilogue

It wasn't quite that simple. The real world still existed, with leases and deadlines and bills to be paid.

Bucky talked to Natasha. He'd expected her to be instantly on board with the idea, since he went with the _fewer black dogs meant less chance of them being turned into weapons, turned into fuel_ angle. He thought she'd be more sympathetic to that than his other reasons. He hadn't expected her to say, "That's not your job."

He ended up explaining all his reasons, why he'd thought of it in the first place, and she nodded in understanding. "If it's what you need to do," she said, "I'm not going to stand in your way. I'll help Sam build the spell and I'll teach you how to use it. But you have to be careful."

"I won't be alone," he reminded her. "I'll be with Steve."

"And I won't let anyone hurt him."

Bucky wasn't sure exactly _what_ passed between Steve and Natasha, but something did, a moment of perfect understanding in which they looked way too similar for his comfort, before she said, "I believe you."

 

*   *   *

 

Once the spell was built, Bucky had to learn it—which was easier said than done. It wasn't complex, at least according to Natasha, but even after everything, something in him still rebelled at the idea of magic spells.

It was Clint who said, "You don't _have_ to call it a spell," which made Bucky think that at some point in Clint's hard and fast introduction to magic his mind had run along similar lines, so Bucky didn't. Piece of magic worked for him.

It meant they spent a lot of time at Sam's house, since it was apparently set up better for this kind of thing. It also meant Steve spent a lot of time with Sam while Natasha was teaching him, working through the piece of magic step by step, and it made Bucky happy to see how well they were getting along.

Steve should have more than just him. 

 

*   *   *

 

Some weeks in, the five of them were at the bar walking distance from Sam's place—even if to anyone else they looked like four—when Sam said, "You know, I've got a spare room down the back of the house."

"Yes?" Bucky said, mystified at the non-sequitur.

"Now that you can officially do your magic spell—" Natasha's voice had been quiet enough no one was going to overhear in the noise of the bar, but Bucky still groaned and put his head on the table.

"Don't call it that," he said while Steve and Clint laughed at him.

She went on, unperturbed, "—you're going to need a base of operations. If you're still going through with your plan. Are you?"

"Yes," he said, lifting his head, "unless Steve—"

"No, I haven't changed my mind."

"Then yeah," Bucky threaded his fingers through Steve's, "we are."

"Which means you'll be giving up your apartment," Sam said.

"Yes…and?"

"Sam's asking you to move in with him," Clint said, chasing the chunk of pineapple at the bottom of his glass with a straw. He speared it, popped it in his mouth, and grinned.

"Not when you put it like that, I'm not," Sam said, nose wrinkling. "What I am doing is kindly and generously, because I am a good person, offering to let you use my spare room as your permanent address." He tilted his head back and forth. "And you can store your shit in my garage if you want."

"Seriously?" He'd been planning to throw his stuff in storage and get a post office box for mail, but this would make everything a million times easier.

"Uh huh."

"Why?"

"Ever heard the expression don't look a gift horse in the mouth?"

"Yeah, but I'm ignoring it."

Sam heaved a sigh. "Because you're doing a good thing, half the garage is empty anyway, and it's not like you're going to be around to use the room." He grinned. "Besides, if I put up with you, I get to enjoy Steve's company. And Steve doesn't give me shit about old technology."

 

*   *   *

 

The morning was cool, the sky above a cloudless pale blue, trees dappling Sam’s yard with shadows.

Bucky's car was parked at the end of the driveway, packed up with everything he thought he'd need. They were planning to be away for no more than three weeks on this first trip, plotting a route that would take them to two cemeteries and one graveyard, both long abandoned.

Natasha looked at him seriously. "If you need help, call."

"I will." With the time she'd spent teaching him, with the stories Clint had told him—and he wasn't sure she knew about those—he understood a little bit better why she'd done what she had. It'd hurt, he still wasn't sure it had been the best choice, but he understood, and he didn't hold it against her. She was his friend, an unexpected and unusual one, but a good one for all that. "Thanks for," he raised his hands, let them fall, "for everything."

"But maybe not for breaking into your apartment?"

"Okay, maybe not for that," he said with a wry smile, half convinced she could read his mind.

Beside him, Steve huffed.

"You'll watch out for him?" she said to Steve.

"I'd say with my life," Natasha's lips twitched, "but you know. It's a bit late for that."

"Still, I appreciate the sentiment."

There was another moment of perfect understanding between them, the same as before, and Bucky shook his head. "We'll be careful, and it's not like we're going to be doing anything dangerous."

"Why would you say something like that?" Clint groaned. "You might as well walk under a ladder while kicking a black cat."

"I don't think that's how it works," Bucky said.

"Oh yeah? How do you think I broke my toe?" He turned to Natasha just as she opened her mouth to speak, saying, "Remember? _What can possibly go wrong now_ and then wham, broken toe."

"Yes, but that's you."

Bucky burst into laughter and Steve said, "I promise I'll keep Bucky from breaking any toes."

"See that you do." Clint pulled Bucky into a quick hug. "Be careful out there, man. Magic shit is weird, but I'm sure you'll be fine. Your boyfriend is just as weird."

Steve glared at him.

"No, come on, you're dead and you turn into a dog. I'm not saying you're not a great guy, but that's weird."

"I actually can't argue with that," Steve conceded after a bit.

"Me neither," Bucky added.

"There you go. Right twice in one conversation. I'm calling that a win."

"And that means you should probably get going before he puts his foot in his mouth," Sam said. "I'll walk you to the car."

Bucky watched fondly as Steve, visible only to them, phased through the car and settled in the passenger seat, then opened the driver's door and slid into the seat.

Sam leaned an elbow on the roof, the other propped on top of the door.

"Can I give you one last piece of advice?"

Sam's gaze was intent, pinning him in place. "Anything you can tell us would be great."

"These abandoned cemeteries you're going to? They aren't the only forgotten dead around. This country's built on them. Some of them'll have their own watchers, their own guardians. You run into any of those, you don't mess around. You show respect and you move on, or they'll have you and Steve for lunch." 

A shiver ran down Bucky's spine. "We will."

"We won't forget," Steve said seriously.

Sam gave them a half-smile and straightened. "Then stop cluttering up my driveway. You're making the place look untidy. Keep us updated on how it goes, call if you need advice, and let me know before you get back."

"Can do," Bucky said.

Steve leaned over him to grin at Sam out the window. "Bye, Sam."

Sam stepped back and gave them a quick wave as Bucky started the car and pulled out of the driveway, the road unrolling ahead of them.

When they reached the highway, Steve shifted and put his head out the open window, tipping it back to sing out to the sky above, his song winding out and spiralling through the lines connecting black dog to black dog: _we're here, we're here and we're coming._


End file.
